by Anne Zito

We take a stroll along the pier
Where fishermen throw their lines
into the wind
for no return

“What happened to you?”
Mother’s bent over, bent on asking me.
I peer into a bucket of bait
Struggling to breathe

Mother’s coat drowns in mist
East is west
West is east
Salt stings my lips

That same day
Sun burned a hole through the clouds
I sat on the beach
Shivering

I am not British, mother
There are no whys or wherefores
There are still haves and have-nots
Of which I am painfully aware

I’m grown up now, mother
I may have your nose
But I am not like you
I love the cold.