by Tyler Anne Whichard Mackenzie Cruz Momma, there’s grief like a beach breeze in October: a numbness that turns near-comfort because at least it’s relief from the cold. Your skin just — forgets that it used to be skin. I sit with a girl named Hazel in the hold of such an evening, swaying in time with the waves at our toes. The sun left us but we linger, losing feeling in our ears, our fingers, our mouths. I want to kiss her. I want to wash the sand from her skin and wrap her