Thea Goodman

Shell

I changed my clothes
behind a rock.
We’re not looking at you
someone said.
Twelve. Galled.
Too old to change
in the open. My body
glared. Blared. Bleating. Freshly
flared. Appalling. Crouched
behind boulder a shell
drew me to my knees.
I played in the warm sand
feeling it pour through
my fingers, peeled white
underwear shed off ankle,
in tangled ball. Coil of red
shorts and top. Time lost me,
shell scooping the sand,
wearing my swimsuit
only half way up, new
breasts blind
and free in salt spray.

Back to Issue XV…

Thea Goodman is a writer in Chicago and the author of The Sunshine When She’s Gone (Henry Holt, 2013) and The Invented Mother (Finishing Line Press 2023,) a finalist in the 2022 New Women’s Voices Chapbook Competition. Her short works have appeared in New England Review, Columbia, The Rumpus, The Penn Review and are forthcoming in Allium. Honors include a Pushcart Prize Special Mention and inclusion in The New York Public Library’s Digital Story Archive. At work on a hybrid book of poetry and fiction, she serves on the National Council of Graywolf Press.