Jonathan Aprea

Cup of Sand

I was taught to mix sand with the flour.
I learned this from my mom,
who learned it from a book,
which was printed with another state’s
resources. I grew up beside
a construction materials company.
Sand would blow over the grass
in such quantities
I only reached into the blades
to collect it. I learned to give thanks to
the eroded land, to fall asleep
in incredible discomfort. The walls of
my stomach bled sympathetically.
My dead neighbors, the heavy metals
in their flesh, my relationships
with those people. You have to eat
the sand. Rinse it in an unfathomable bowl.