CURTIS HAYES

Black Plum

on the beach
10 years old
my mother reading
a paperback mystery
her thin frame, slick
a bottle of tanning butter
stuck in the sand
me
my brother
some kids from our street
dry ourselves under the sun
towels spread out
around on an old striped blanket
kept in the trunk
of our car
all summer long
salt and sand
coating my skin
all of our skins
an offshore breeze
pushes back the July heat
just enough
two spots over,
a radio plays The Year of the Cat
and ten steps away
voices squeal
through the breaking waves
I reach into a metal cooler
while the others doze
find a black plum
cold in my hand
I bite in
sweet and sour
the juice running down my fingers
onto my flat belly
unaware
that this is the best day
I ever lived
or ever would live

Curtis Hayes has worked in sawmills, greasy spoons, and as a grip, gaffer, and set builder in film production. A native of Southern California, he likes eating chili cross-legged on beach towel. His poetry has been featured in numerous small press journals and anthologies.