After the storms

We went to the beach, and in silence
Searched for driftwood
Brought violently to our shores from who knows where.

We picked up wood made smooth by so much tumbling,
And made toys from what looked like torsos, cars, or guns.

I found an action figure once,
A toy soldier without arms,
A smoothed-out white face,
Two thick muscular legs
Dressed still in camouflage paint.
My friends–Miguel, Bladimir, Elena—
eyed me with envy,
As I took it for a walk along the sand.

That day, we played that my soldier was the leader
And that my friends’ pieces of hollow wood 
valiantly followed
When I asked them to attack the growing waves.

You should have seen us on that beach,
My guy, waist-deep in the water,
Summoning with his head,
And the others just stumps,
Hopping towards the waves
Throwing themselves at foam.

We were so brave.

I don’t know where they are today,
Those kids; they vanished when I escaped.
Except, here they are still,
Standing with me on that beach
The night of that storm,
Facing violent winds, our bodies rattled
By thunder,
Our eyes on a sky lit ablaze by lightning,
Our hands on our hips, challenging the ocean
To roar louder,
Summoning the waves to crash
Closer,
And Bladimir always losing control,
Angrily throwing handfuls of sand
Like a madchild,
Tears and rain and ocean spray
Rolling down his face.