The Long Trip Home: Archives

This is not a typical romance,
but we are on the beach barefoot,
my shoes left in the room, yours out in the sand.
"This is the first time I've been to the ocean,"
I say. You laugh while I run knee deep
into the Atlantic as if I discovered the word water.

You are a military baby, always near water,
but when I ask about summer romance,
thinking I'm just some northern girl getting in too deep,
you tell me you've never walked barefoot
on the beach before. We turn towards the ocean
to avoid that awkward, pre-kiss moment, both our heads facing the sand.

I'm thinking about the way the wet sand
feels between my toes, the way the water
washes over my feet, the ocean,
my life. You are wondering what romance
feels like—if you have to creep into it barefoot,
or if you should take the plunge, dive deep

with reckless abandon, until you are in too deep
to leave unscathed, not a trace of sand
left on your body. Will you remember going barefoot,
the way your toes curled back when the water
washed over them for the first time, how the word romance
rolled off your tongue, how it felt like the word ocean.

"I want to live on the ocean,"
I tell you, but you are somewhere else, deep
in thought. "What do you mean by romance?"
you ask. I think about throwing you in the sand,
passionately kissing you while the water
washes over our bodies until we feel as naked as our bare feet.

Not until we're in the room, our bare feet
dry and at home on solid ground, the ocean
hissing outside the window, the whisper of water
against earth, do I tell you that the answer is deep
within, that if you can find our footprints in the sand
in the morning, you will have found your romance.

On the plane home, I ask the stewardess for water, remembering the ocean,
I kick off my shoes exposing my bare feet, spilling a few grains of sand on the floor,
wondering if you decided to dive deep into this romance
or slowly wade out.

Other poems by Carly Sachs:

• A Poem That's Not About Eating

• Roof Perspective, Spotlight New York City, January 2002