19 drowned.
4 still swimming.

and as the skin hits the waves
in a split second smack,
that hits your jaw, stinging
like the on-duty sandwich
in your fingers; slick sick fingers
that couldn't save them,
or rather: were busy, bastard.

Your empty chair in the sun
on the sea, bright like a bulb
and beautiful like a snapshot
that won't even capture a glimpse
of what you felt that summer,
when the kids drown and your face;
so simple and confused

with your fingers wrapped around the sandwich
in the sand.