Plum Island

Martha Rhodes

When I see a woman

strutting her bikini,

I strip her of it

and shove her

into the freezing

Atlantic, tied into

a canvas sack

I’ve weighted down. 


The bikini is in my hands

and I bury it, evidence,

in a migrating dune I determine

the next hurricane that hits

the eastern shore will wash away.

A fox might dig it up before then

and  run with it into the sea

and out, all day, in and out,


dropping it finally, shredded,

unrecognizable. When I see

a woman before the store mirror 

admiring her own form, I remember,

in a lemon yellow room, an oval wall mirror

and a young teen girl on the floor,

naked, her legs bent and spread,

afraid to look, so shy, but  looking,


peering into, (imagining), her future.