Debris
by Stephanie Striffler
you and I pick our way through tsunami
debris claws of bare tree up-ended tires Harley
Davidson soccer ball
the task has fallen to us
an ocean away to fill
bags with ragged styrofoam remnants forever
undegradable oyster farm buoys stamped
with undecipherable characters carried
from a disaster more than a year
away
you can’t say one word
face blank as sand expanse scrubbed
raw by high tide
just as once you burrowed
into the couch in pajamas
a tiny sand crab almost safe
from waves of father rage ashtray
teapot phonebook flung over
head through decades of North
Dakota snows generations of silent Scottish
chill crashed against the wall
how is it
the task has fallen to me
to reach for your hand as you hoist
your weight over this Shinto
shrine beam heaved by an earthquake
the other side of the world
but after all
isn’t it all one ocean?
Judge’s comments:
This poet captured a “real” moment in time between a grandmother and her grandchild. Who among us hasn’t noticed how hands change as we age? And how do you explain these changes to a child without provoking confusion or dread? The answer is contained in their exchange which, above all, is sweet and could be universal.
—Toni Lumbrazo Luna