dawn seashore mango Italy turtle

You think about turtle time and tell me I walk too fast, that dawn is licking the horizon and if I get there too soon I'll catch on fire. I hold you in my hands and you curl up inside yourself like a turtle, arms tucked over your heart, silent whispers soaking into your knees. I remember our weekend on the seashore, how the light at dawn reflected in the sand and made our footprints seem even darker. The first sun rays were so free you had to capture them with your eyes so your pupils were ripe mangoes, and when I lifted my hands to shade them, you stopped me and let rivers form on your cheeks. You told me that in Italy there are women at bakeries with dough stuck to their fingers, flour on the sides of their noses. You said you feel like that when you're waiting for me to wait for you, like everything you touch sticks and weighs you down, your wedding band caked and the cracks in your palms white as the sand when dawn has left. We wish she wouldn't as we watch her, skirt hiked above the knee, lips sweet as mangoes tasting the ocean air, more sugar than salt in the mornings. You tell me she can find us in Italy too, but she always seems farther away. I turn around once to see if you're finally close, but all I find is a shell on the ground and the skin of a mango, drying in the midday heat.