We cruised down the rattling
 washboard road, as Toni hugged
 the shaking steering wheel
 of her dad's 1950 DeSoto sedan.
  
 She swore the faster we went,
 the less we'd feel the ruts.  
 We parked next to sprawling
 bearberry shrubs and dragged
 our hot-soled Pro-Keds through
 the deep dune sand. She tossed 
 sand high with her toe and laughed.
  
 “Kick it up. Scare off those rattlers.”
  
 Sea oats leaned in the off-shore
 wind, pointing the way.  We headed
 north up Coronado Beach,
 Toni swinging our toy bucket,
 bright with clownish clown fish.  
  
 “I made a B!” she said.  “Thanks 
 to you, math man,” side-hugging me.   
  
 “You earned it,” I said.  
  
 “I spy!” She ran ahead, bucket 
 flailing, and plucked a perfect sand
 dollar out of twisted seaweed.  
  
 Toni, my gay friend and never
 mine, talked about the fall dance,
 our friends and their love woes.  
 She told her stories of grade school
 in Michigan.  When her words
 came to her father’s slurred growls  
 of anger and hate, she took my hand
 and squeezed.  We walked on, scanning 
 the beach ahead of us in silence.  
  
 Far ahead, I could see angel wings,
 a bone-white pair, the hinge
 unbroken, rising from the sand.
 
 “Don’t break them,” I said, carefully 
 placing the shells in her hands.
  
 “But it’s yours. You saw it first.” 
  
 “I know. I found it.  To give to you.”