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It was 1983 and I was six years old, riding between my father and brother in my father's Oldsmobile, back when front seats stretched from door to door. My father drove, and my brother, who was
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Hannah Rousselot (she/her) has published two long works, Fragments of You (Kelsay Press) and Ocean Currents (forthcoming from Finishing Line Press). You can follow her work on facebook.com/hmrpoetry or @hannahrousselot, or at hannahrousselot.com. "Flipside" is in Short Circuit #04, Short Édition's quarterly review.
If you find my sorrow
keep it. It has been too long
festering and coagulating
and self congratulating.
And I, unbound by it,
might maybe hopefully finally
reach those floating cities
perched on colossal turtles
whose shadows we grieve under
and leave us begging for purchase.
But probably likely doubtlessly
I will just end up pining for it
the same way the sand longs for
the tiny creatures leaving their eggshells
that disturb its grainy pattern
leave into turbulent and bitter water.