the sand lies within us just beneath the surface
but no one will find it not customs officials
or surgeons or cheap state psychologists
searching for photographs of smothered children
the sand we keep within us we draw it in
deep breath in and if we are lucky the fire
in our hearts is strong enough to melt it
into the glass that we use in our later years
to stare at our neighbours through.
every now and then now i am older my facade slips
and tiny grains of sand trickle from my lips or my eyes,
gets in my shoes and sock, tiny grains that tell me
that we should all be very worried because when it
comes no amount of sand will help push up back up
through the mud.
at night i dream of a cottage in england, where death
and i draw charcoal sketches of those too young to
know where to put the sand that threatens to engulf
their tiny lives, those with no knowledge of the deep
primal breaths needed to suck it up and push it down
and keep going even though they are drowning.