They skim the sand at Berjaya in black,
not walking—moving as the tide permits,
their hems kept clean where surf withdraws and lacks
the reach to mark what passes over it.
“Come here.” The phrase is quiet, edged with use.
She drifts toward Bella, low-tide sure and slow—
her hand, inscribed with henna: scripture without truce;
her eyes—two blue instructions I can’t know.
The heat goes still. I hold my breath.
Her fingers near my daughter’s lifted hair.
Then something skims my calf—wood, a weed, a net
the sea has finished with—and settles there.
A hand held back, the air we didn’t break;
the body keeps the breath we didn’t take.