Wet salted air. There is a memory
Inside the sand: She digs and plows the mud
To feed her small ones, even with her blood.
She orders them, "Reach up! Set yourselves free"

But they will never know that gold ideal
Until they are ripped out or sliced down by
The roots to clear the way for resort land

Where I stretch out, calm, tanned, though I can feel
Hot itchy places where the last survived
On my blood, wet against the drying sand.