Cold sands
rolling
over dents and dunes
silent as death
and
only my chilly lips between to feel them pass–
At once, light
and stiff- a densely packed strip of shoreline
separating east from west.
spit from swallow
speak from sleep.
I recognize this place.
It is where pale
strands of life
rest
on my nose
exhausted after being pulled
and stretched
It is where fingers sag limp
from grasping the wind
too tightly.
And you cannot help me
because only I am here
with my voice
breaking against that relentless wind
that tells me
I can never know the truth
though it is buried somewhere near
“The Way It Happened” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork by Agnes Cecile
The Show Tell Project 