Friday from the Archives: “Where the Cape Fear Empties into Ocean” a poem by Kathleen Halme
with art by Claude Howell in NCLR 1998
As we head into the longest night of the year, the Solstice, and winter begins, we think of the return of the light, and the warmth of the summer sun. As we bundle up from the cold, or rest by the fire, our thoughts wander to warmer days, less clothing, and relaxing in the ocean.
In our 1998 issue, Kathleen Halme shared this poetic recollection of beach-going, families piling on to our North Carolina shores. Halme taught at UNC-W at the time, a collegiate environment known as much for its creative writing as for its environmental science programs and easy access to the beach.
“Where the Cape Fear Empties into Ocean”
by Kathleen Halme
In last week’s big weather the ocean ate
the gazebo at the fat beach.
Sunday again, they’re back:
the fast food families, staking
claims in swimsuits big as sails.
Plant that cooler of salt snacks and fizz.
Stick that watermelon umbrella
on your little edge of ocean. In the shifting
continental drift of cellulose
we all want the primal dip.
Already a boy has found a baby shark.
He walks it like a clarinet, its jaw
a squeaking reed. The little primate
sneaks behind beached sleepers,
and plays the shark at their butts.
It’s too soon to make a fuss:
we’re a bit crabby this morning.
I grow nails and teeth,
unroll below the sea oats, and run
with my real husband into ocean.
Can you still touch? Yes, can you?
we ask until everyone in water
has dissolved below the shoulders.
Above us all, a whalish blimp chubs by
to tell us all where to eat tonight.
Below us all,
the bottom dips
down in drift and
we’re afloat with
plankton in the neap tide.
Bolted into hunger
we can’t fight,
the current floats
us soaked with water.
We can’t see
the larval mollusks,
the small sea cucumbers,
invisible to the naked
eye, drifting in
our extraneous suits.
We are in the soup, singular
and swimming, roiling
with the isopods and copepods.
We are motile, every one
of us buoyant
as bubbles
in the tidal cycle. Who can see
our feet kicking
over a great heart
cockle pumping water
into gills, over bulging
ark shells straining
plankton? We are delicious,
surrendered to shells and jellies,
every one soaking in sun.
Add the 1998 issue, with a short story by Lee Smith, oral traditions in NC, a special section on Fred Chappell, and more, to your collection today!
