Cast away at Larrabee Beach


Not father or friend, you overhear
young mother's cell-phone confession,
sins whispered to Puget Sound surf --
absolution an afterthought


when she hurried west,
jumped a whole nation,
left lover to reclaim her baby
now sleeping shaded on the sand.


No hint how original separation came.
Pain, she murmurs, erases memories --
perhaps, someday, yours.
You wonder about her lover,


if she would re-recant,
follow him again, Florida,
Bermuda, maybe the Keys.
You guess her answer,


baby snuggled close, tiny fingers
curled around her breast,
sun-baked smile telling
precisely where love lies --


your own lover, gone astray,
offering no surf confession --
and you, no baby, double cursed,
cast away.



Timothy Pilgrim