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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4561 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention The Absence of Wind Treezaa (aka, T. E. Ballard) After a hurricane, my grandfather drove to the beach, parked his blue pickup, left me to walk through cathedrals of sand. White shells overhead like small stars, freed to find sky. And I remember this thought, that the ocean had somehow emptied her belly, and if I gathered it up, in my hands, in the pockets of my jeans, in the box I had brought for treasure, somehow I could give her breath and she would never be empty. I waited, the two of us exchanging air like small gifts wrapped in the paper of my rib Hands are full, my home is empty. The cardboard is wet on my skin. Life smells of salt and the man next to me, the one I have loved, wants to know what I'll remember, what I'll remember after he is gone, when all we are left is the pink shell of what we have lived. I say nothing, carry it all in my pocket. |
