See Coast Hurrying into Sea Amy McCann Didn’t it doily me? Wave-lace tatting my ankles in an uneven hem. A forgotten umbrella, a foraging for shells—those vacant, softly howling dwellings. I eaved my white face with a flyer from the Hare Krishna parade; I napped and let grit collect in any sticky location. It’s tough to graft a turret to a collapsing tidal castle. Every tourist spoils a gull. We’re flat out here without our clothes, our jewelry or eyeglasses, our birthmarks darkening in the glare. I made a taxonomy of beach trash: scale, claw, single unpinned wing. So many kids pissed in the water it didn’t matter. Fake coconut stink. I suckled a sweating bottle as a plane overhead flapped a banner for beer. I was finally small as a souvenir. Amy McCann is a 2012–13 McKnight Artist Fellow in Poetry. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hotel Amerika, the Kenyon Review, Third Coast, and elsewhere. She lives in Minneapolis, where she teaches at Northwestern College. “See Coast Hurrying into Sea” appears in our Autumn 2013 issue.