Two Poems

incomplete confessions of wind

The sand is coming. Listen:                      no whisper aside from the atlantic's
low hum. absence illuminated                   in particle. Only there were boys

          with sandpaper skin. The sand           was white and so it was vast. The boys
      needn't fear the ocean, nor did they      fear their father's blue. They could

and couldn't have come from it,               those minerals, dead and without
     carcass – still, the boys held                            the shells like they would a strip

           of bark, always a breakage                     before the hurl into an unknown
       displacement. The moon was vast         and so it was white, at this precise

            distance. The boys didn't see it,                    off in the distance, the sand
                falling mid-air in sheets. There was a towel           six feet to my left, dancing

                  -flight like a ripped flag. Like instinct,          i wrapped it around my face as if
    i knew how to survive this                                    landscape; the boys,

          silenced to their core.                         When birthed by midnight
              sandstorm, the boys held me                   in their mouths like they would

    Raghead –     they didn't say it                    aloud. They needn't give it voice: the boys,
unmoving. White as bone, plucked                  and bleached for exhibit. In truth, it was my skin

          who betrayed them. The boys                            with strawmat hair – i think one
                was named jake – how he too reached             for shelter, asked if i could help him

                                become me, like i wasn't warned              of hands ghosted into land's
                         negative. Like i didn't recognize                    that face, rancid and speechless

          the way, when cut open, a gall-bladder                      can leave an entire room gasping
            and nauseous.        The wind                                 subsided. Perhaps i made it

    all up – it was as if nothing                                   happened: the boys resuming their small
-ness. A breeze receding into lullaby. In truth,              there was nothing left to say – my feet

                       between salt and mineral, sinking                     into that earth,
                               unsteady –                                                           as if i was digging my own grave –