Thin Place at Slim Point
A spirited wind blows everything sideways,
snaps hair across your eyes so it
scratches, like the wool army
blanket we spread over the sand.
This house with a red roof and no walls
stands on a bony finger of land
pointed at the opposite shore,
marks a turning point where
you no longer battle the waves.
White paper birches lean in conspiracy
over that patch of grass, my grandmother
still stands there, pulls pilfered
cereal from her purse, stolen
at breakfast from the staff cafeteria.
Garbage bag ghosts billow
from a creaky bin where cousins anchored
makeshift sleeping bags with young bones
soft with burnt marshmallows, spooked
by flashlight-red glow under chins,
wide awake until the wind slept at dawn.
Author: Jean Janicke
Photo: Jake Walker on Unsplash
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