Poem | Beach Haven, New Jersey

(Vivaan Trivedii/Unsplash)

I’m afraid
of who it is
that made
these things.

The surf
repeatedly blasting
the sand
to waste,

the weird slide
of seagulls
the breeze,

the smashed shells,
stranded weeds,
the bells
of shape-shifting

clouds. The all-
maddening sound
of churning.
A will

wrathed with
delirious light
could carve

a foamy,
flickering line
and then expect
small beings

to dance
on it
till death.

Published in the February 2022 issue: 

Magda Andrews-Hoke lives in Philadelphia. She studied theology and the arts at the University of St. Andrews and was a 2019 recipient of the Frederick Mortimer Clapp Fellowship for Poetry.

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