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.

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