by Megan Williams

Being a skeleton sounds good
until the wind hits. Suddenly
I miss the meat of my body.
Seagulls huddle together
like salt-beaten bowling pins.
When the other beachgoers gawk
at my five sweaters, Dad tightens
the blanket around my bird shoulders.
How lovely the water
must feel to a living body.

When I was little
they couldn’t keep me from the waves.
Mornings, just me and dolphin fins
disrupted the horizon.
I never felt cold or wind or weak
or like my chest might collapse,
o star of brittle bones.
Only the pleasure of floating,
saltwater, the first and only good way I tried
to make myself weightless.

Megan Williams is a writer in Pittsburgh, PA. Her chapbook TWENTYSOMETHING is forthcoming in 2025. Tweet her @megannn_lynne.