Some hard days xe walks along

the desiccated riverbed again.

On the worst days, xe bends down,

scoops up flecks of copper mud,

brings them to xyr lips when xe yearns

for that old taste of brackish water.

Fewer days are hard now. More often,

xe sucks on butterscotch or licorice,

leaning back in xyr rocking chair with

a dog-eared book and a flop-eared dog.

Xe listens to the grass shiver in the wind,

no longer dampened by crying estuary.

Xyr parents — both dentists — liked xyr

house better before the dam was built.

They live on a hill; they’ve never lost their

vinyls and egg crates to the jealous sea.

They call xym on the phone sometimes.

By mutual unspoken agreement, no

one speaks of the dam, though xe knows

what they think, and they know

xe knows.

When xe hangs up, xe smiles, only a touch

sad that xe can't ask for saltwater taffy

anymore.