All That’s Left

Do you remember when we went down to the shore?

Empty milk jugs strung like pearls behind us

on old jump ropes. Filling them one by one beneath

the waves and hauling them back up to the car. With sand

clutching at our feet and legs and hands,

begging—take us with you and please don’t leave,

but we dusted them off in the parking lot and didn’t

give a second thought.

It took forever to get it boiling, remember?

We got the biggest pots in the house (the ones

we use when your family visits, but they don’t

come around much anymore, do they?) and

poured our stolen water in. The stove was on high,

the house muggy, and we flung the windows open

—remember—because the whole place smelled

like brine and seaweed and something far away.

We boiled and boiled and boiled until the pots

were empty and all was left was the salt.

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PK Dufner is a BGSU alumni, avid reader, poet, and aspiring mushroom.