DEATH Poem: Low Tide, by Jennifer Karp

We were out there looking for holes
before the rosy orange touched the sea.
With shovels and trowels, hands, too,

we dug deep in the rocky beach for
fine fellows to bake. Be careful,
don’t get cut, said Mum. We didn’t care

about a little blood, it was not
about the clam, but the discovery,
we were excited in that moment,

that time. We took our hod to the fire.
Dad was always there, in a red apron,
cooking with a smile. Smells of butter

overtook briny warm breezes.
I live there, in memory, at ebb.
Now my kids dig holes. If they get

cut, it won’t matter, they will still
burrow, search the froth, forever
this moment, waters unspent.