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Oil Spill on Beach 50.jpg

The Spill

ONLY A MEMORY

Juliet DeMarko

Juliet DeMarko has lived in Pensacola forty-two years. She serves on the West Florida Literary Federation Board of Directors and is currently their poet laureate. Juliet has published two memoir cookbooks and is working on two new books of poetry. Her childhood in the Blue Ridge Mountains and life on the Gulf Coast inspire her work. Postgraduate poetry courses, poetry workshops and writing keep her busy

My philosophy is:


If a memory makes me cry,


Delete it. At least, repress it.


I’m trying, but I can’t erase


all my Gulf Coast memories,


not the ones that have been


the barometer of my life, the ones


that should have been a part


of my life forever, never


should have been propelled


by an unnatural force


into the category of


“only a memory.”


Just this spring, the waves


slapped against the pier where


we sat with friends at dusk,


sipping red wine, eating thick


homemade meatloaf sandwiches,


watching the sun set once more,


and knowing life was truly good.


Now green foamy scum


slaps up against the deserted pier.


The sun sets,


but no one watches.


How many week-ends our little


Cal 28 flew through the water


while friends’ children and ours


squealed as the wind lifted the sails


and the boat leaned low over the


clear green sea. In calmer waters,


dolphins swam parallel to the boat,


rolling and leaping, showing off for


a mesmerized audience. How long


will these playful sea creatures


be able to lift their encumbered bodies?


Who will see them sink?


Earlier still in memory, we sit, before


dawn, on a blanket in the white sand


with three bundled-up little girls.


We are drinking coffee and hot chocolate


and eating gritty hard-boiled


Easter eggs while their father


explains the symbolism of


the rising sun, points out the link


between colored eggs


and ancient fertility rituals,


He assures them that


although the sun would set, it would also rise,


how a world with such sparkling beauty


could only prove that peace, love, life after death,


and, most of all, hope for a world without end


would always be there.


Then the oil rolled in with the tide,


washed over such sentimental memories,


such seemingly naïve beliefs, covering


the pristine sand with the black,


sticky stench of death.  No


glimmer of resurrection.  No


edifying symbolism. Just uncertainty


for the future of the Gulf Coast,


for the world we leave our children,


and their children.


Even faith seems inadequate to calm


the fears we can’t deny. How far will


this black menace reach?


Where is hope?


Oh, Lord, let us pray.

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