I hold my breath to dive under my first wave of the summer. I can feel the tide swirl my hair, and when I burst back into the air I see my father's fishing boat. The drum turns; his nets are full of people today. Each one receives a swift hammer smash to the skull. My father's face looks beautiful, glistening with brain matter. I lay back and float; I am moving closer to the hull. I am caught in the net. I close my eyes and smile: I cannot imagine anything greater than to be spritzed across my father's brow.
I am every shade of green
when April becomes May becomes June.
Rooted in salt and mud,
I am one million stolid soldiers.
Do you hear me?
I am the soft peep of osprey chicks
and the low engine hum of swift-approaching
Jon Boats weighted with minnows.
I am yellowing.
It is the end of August, and
the chill of these northeasterlies is
weakening my spine.
The silence of September
Natalie Einselen is a first-year undergraduate student at Boston University studying Spanish and linguistics.