You can drive all dayto reach the ocean, spendseveral fragile moments wishingshe were always closer.You might wish to bea fisherman, fantasizeabout tan and sinew, sea glass,surf. The island at the horizonbeckons. But you have a station wagon,not a schooner, and bills pile up.Other mothers on the beach know.You catch one’s eye as she tugsher swimsuit top, allthe diffidence of motherhoodpassing between you.Only gulls are free here, onlychildren in photographs.
For Grace’s prompt to the Real Toads: JUDITH WRIGHT