"Mrs. Crump?" The man frowning at Madge through the screen door had stolen a letter from the mailbox earlier in the week, so he knew the surname. "Yes," Madge replied. "I'm Harold Bates from the Debt ... [+]
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.