Whitney Hudak

We Have Our Difficulties

We walk the beach in the mornings

after each storm to see what’s shifted, 

what’s new, newly gone. Belly-up

horseshoe crabs—their spurred legs

clawing the sky for ground

that isn’t there—ancient panic.

Some days love is a choice.

Sometimes it chooses you 

and you find your life is now

spent accumulating trash

with treasure. Always meaning

to sort it out later.

Devil’s purse husks, water-colored

jingles, lobsters’ legs torn 

from their bodies, swirled driftwood, 

never-ending shells. The surf-line

of weeds where seagulls scavenge

and squabble. Sandpipers

dancing the tide. 

The ocean calm now as we stand

in the consequences of its sleepless

night. When the waves bullied 

the shore and the sand said 

Yes, yes, yes. That’s what I’m here for. 

To meet you wherever you are. 

However you roll in.