Carrying (For Wren)

by jennifer dumbelton

Seven weeks new, we stand

on Brighton Beach and I feel

slick sea-shaped pebbles shift

under my weight. Clouds marble

into foaming waves; the light

wrestles with the deep.

Hours ago I lost my breath,

doubled over and held my stomach

under rainbow bunting in the Lanes.

I caught it back with salt on focaccia

and cold water in a bakery, held that glass

until my knuckles turned white

and that pain passed. Now

I marvel

how small I am against the sea,

how small you are,

the size of my pinky nail,

a nautilus nestled within. I cradle

my belly, I say it out loud – I hope

somehow you will absorb

a love of the sea, I hope

this moment is enough:

the crest and the crash on the shore,

the roar of static in my ears,

the salt lining my cheeks.