Davy

April 1, 2022

Sam Fletcher has written for magazines, anthologies, newspapers, and stages. A lot of his stuff tends to be about gods and animals. These days he freelances from his bedroom in Honolulu, HI. To read his other published work or keep tabs on what’s coming, visit fletcherstories.com or follow him @fletcherstories on Instagram.

 

Bubbles ruffle the wet surface, sand crabs tasking below
I pop them with my finger, wishing to dip deep and
dig the crabs up, but I don’t. I know
of their limited time here,
the way the tide pushes everything out and pulls everything in,
everything: smooth shells, fish schools, my fuzzy, silly head, the
lack of control is a laborious lesson. At least
it’s okay if I say so.
People who don’t know about Poseidon or Davy Jones
or a thousand other names spanning the coast over
will make up their own, and
when they choose to stare this thing in the eyes
it will stare back,
like all good gods do.
All this arrogance, like this feeling is ours to keep.
Putting price on it, in our terms:
Oceanfront property. A paradox,
like happiness’s pursuit.
These crabs spend every day building a structure here,
knowing it will drown by morning.