Georgia lies in bed, eyes closed, curled into a ball, listening to the soft tick-tick-tick from the clock in the living room as it counts down the minutes until morning. The minutes tick into hours ... [+]
Hannah Rousselot's poem, "Whispers from the Sand," was originally published in Short Edition’s September '19 Rendez-Vous. Hannah is a queer French-American poet and educator. You can support her on facebook.com/hmrpoetry or buy her first book, Fragments of You.
The seashells near the ocean
where I grew up are storytellers.
Every morning, feet burning in the sand
(yellow, the sun) I run to listen
to what they have to say. They tell me
about creatures that live in darkness
so profound they make their own light.
They tell me about forgotten things:
bottles, diapers, shoes, cars, rings,
rusted metal and disintegrating paper.
They tell me about fragility, and how
that can be strength, too. When I leave
and walk back home, I remember
their voices, but not their words.