And so the tide pulls away,
leaving an amniotic soup–
a tide pool to cradle its creatures.

I wanted to fling them back.
I wanted to pull the urchin’s
needles from my skin.
I hated the starfish, how they were
two tiny pink hands. My nausea was
a school of minnows in me.
I wanted them all out.

I would bulldoze the beach.
I missed being empty.

And the tide returned,
no miracle or malice.
Just the moon
reclaiming the ocean’s
little children.

Briefly, I considered chasing
the tidepool’s gems
as they tumbled in the deep.
The sea surged up to
my waist and left me
on the beach wet and alone.

About the Author
Amy Shreeve is a student and amateur poet studying at the University of Texas at Austin. While her work is mostly relegated to notebooks, Austin Community College published her poems “Suburbia,” “If childhood had a flavor,” “Paper Dreams,” and “Hubris From 35000 Feet” in their 2018 and 2019 Vision + Voice student compilation. Amy is the oldest of five children, and she owns every National Geographic published between 2000 and 2013.