Red Tide

I've lived on the coast all my life.But this is the worst I've seen.When my father's head rolls up on the beachI try to smile, having learned the worldprefers it that way. He stinks—more sowhen he was alive. A practicingpedophile isn't a pretty sight: razors,the deal dresser drawerwith its hidden stashof plastic bags crammedwith trophies, memoriesin each delicate, anonymous tuftof purloined hair. Howdo I dodge this stuff? Herehis Benson and Hedges 100s, therehis stained fingers, his Hanes boxersmarching leg over ghastly leg toward landwith the turbid sea in them,shorts I still remembergaping wide on the couch at nightbecause what's the point of hidingwhat his daughters have already seen? Lord,where do I draw the line? If sandis required, then let me signright here, above the glittering fish headsof Siesta Key, where the bloom this year is thickest.I'd head south but they've got itthere too, everywhere, the detrituswe share in private, the costof living in paradise, this summer and the next.