The Book of Weston

She awakens in a bed of sand.

Her eyes flutter. She stands and spins,

and there is no one, only dunes.

Her heart says she brought herself here

but the reason is evaporating in her skull.

She hears the rhythmic roar of distant waves.

She searches toward the sound,

and as it grows, so does her dread,

but she continues because

this is what she asked for.

She approaches the distant shoreline crashing

beyond the obscuring dune and slides

her fingers along the wet translucent

wall of an empty lifeguard tower.

The flags wave red just like her hair,

and when the waves burst into view

devouring the beach below,

she almost turns to run. Her toes

dislodge thick chunks of sand that plummet

and dissolve in the lapping surf.

A plume of mist catches her eye:

a serpent arching out of the sea,

fanning spiked fins that glitter in the sun.

Her serpent. She smiles. Just as she imagined.

Nearer to shore, a megalodon leaps,

its man-sized mouth swallowing air

then water again, vast water

stretching beyond the limits

of her vision, depths unknown.

But straight ahead, a few miles out,

a crimson tower stands obstinate,

triumphant in the greedy waves.

It shines against them, gracefully

reflecting the relentless sun.

And this reflection is what she needed;

it warms her skin and clears her mind

and fills her with the strength

to dive.