By ARIELLA REIDENBERG

 

My friends ask me why I care so much

about sand

 

My father asks why I do not analyze my theories under a microscope

 

My mother says, “You think that’s big…

…wait ‘til you look at tide pools!”

 

I ask myself, why the incoming waves are genocidal

But dumping a block of sodium into the gorge

and watching the walls crumble

is fun.

 

Like a pencil to a wooden desk,

the graphite of my mind smears dark streaks onto walls

painted over until

it’s graffiti to me.

I hold a bead of sand between my thumb and forefinger

rolling gently, wondering if it can get any smaller

 

tiny enough to clog a pore and large enough to taste between your teeth

it plays its part anonymously.

Yet,             back on the beach, I feel the ocean kidnapping each grit beneath my feet

 

and I hear screaming.