When we were three,
Sophia and I were taken
to the beach in Hither Hills.

A seagull came and stole our
bagels, the sand was awful hot,
but the water was perfect on

our warm bellies. Fathers lifted
us high into the air and we squealed,
mothers looked out from under

the beach umbrellas. We went
for a walk on the wooden pier
and both wound up with splinters

in our left feet. Matching splinters!
Matching bathing suits! Matching
wails as fathers propped us up on

the hood of the station wagon,
mothers found the tweezers
in the first aid kit, took turns

alternating between holding ice cubes,
wrestling our wriggling,
and digging out the culprits.
I don't think I actually remember
this day. I don't think the scene
in my head is real— must instead

be the retelling of the story that
I have memorized and rehearsed—
that my mind has filled in the gaps.

And yet, it would explain why,
twenty-one years later, we
can feel the phantom hurt inside

each other; how our pains align
themselves in symmetry, or in
compliment, like mirror selves.

How— when the phone rings,
your voice on the other end
allows me to release my wail,

reach out to squeeze your hand.
We dig the slivers from ourselves
as best we can. When the

hurt remains, you, dearest friend,
will recognize my limp. You will
whimper with me, fully. You will
return with me to the hot sand,
to the menacing gulls, to the water
sweeping us into new and better days.