Refraction
By Esmé DeVries
Our mothers watch us
from up the beach,
sunscreen-slicked faces,
ghastly white, ghoulish behind
cat eye sunglasses.
We hunch
beneath a rainbow umbrella and
squeeze lemon juice into our brown hair,
massage tanning oil into our pink arms,
and crack cold Diet Cokes
affirming to each other
that our hair would get lighter, our skin would get darker
our waists slimmer.
Our mothers bought the lemons, iced the Cokes.
We watch our mothers
from up the beach.
They’re slumped low in beach chairs
with their thighs splayed against Tommy Bahama
towels, spilling over
the metal frames of backpack chairs,
blue and white and
stained with rust.
We perch, knees digging into wet sand,
and practice the valued art of photo editing,
learn how to sit on our heels so our quads flex
against developing fat. Our legs burn from
the grainy sand, small shells burrowing
into our skin, but we stay for hours, letting
the sun
beat down upon us, blaze against our bony
backs, skeletal.
Our mothers watch us
from up the beach.
Water from their White Claws pools
in their stomach rolls and navels.
We wade into the ocean
so that it rises
above our guts
collects
above our developing breasts. We stay
neck-deep
in the water, heads tipped back,
mouths open when waves swell
up to our ears. Water gnaws at our fat,
swallowing our round parts in its heavy
flow. Thick whitecaps lurch high
over our heads and the sun makes them
gleam in our retinas and we are kept
just above the water. For a moment,
we are weightless, floating a foot above
the sands below. Our bodies are empty,
our arms bolstered, like we are swept up
in the talons of eagles. Then we are dunked beneath the
surface again, dumbbells, rocks,
dropping down again.
"For a moment, / we are weightless, floating a foot above / the sands below. Our bodies are empty, / our arms bolstered, like we are swept up / in the talons of eagles."
We watch our brothers surfing,
blond boys, tanned from their sport,
with long, awkward arms, flat pecs,
narrow necks and we marvel at their
perfect forms. On the beach, our mothers
offer them full sugar Cokes, stick sunscreen, and
prepacked sandwiches. We continue
to tread water against
a gathering current.
About the Author...
Esmé DeVries is a young Florida writer. She is in her senior year in the Douglas Anderson Creative Writing program where she serves as the Senior Managing Editor for Élan Literary Magazine. Esmé enjoys writing poetry and creative nonfiction.
About the Artist...
Eva O'Donnell is a 11 th grade visual arts major at Savannah Arts Academy for Visual and Performing Arts. They are currently interested in all types of printmaking and portraiture.