in those grainy 70s photos taken at the beach,
your dark hair blazing—would I say
haloed?—from skin of your face &
awkward body paler than sky or sand.
I was there with you, a child, &
noticed childish fascinations:
whitecapped breakers to do battle with,
dolphin backs breaking the surface farther out.

What I remember of you from that time
is not the blinding brightness pictured,
but your shadow overtaking mine
as we walked the shore in search of shells.
All these years, I have gotten your image wrong.

Ace Boggess is the author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy. His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Hanging Loose, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble. His seventh collection, Tell Us How to Live, is forthcoming in 2024 from Fernwood Press.