Laura Sobbott Ross

Ghosts Don’t Go to the Beach
It’s not a place meant for séances,
the dunes too slippery for hauntings.
Wind already ethereal

in fronds and sea grasses.
The sand, a sterile energy field

of dissipating heat, and we know
how the dead despise chimes and chants—

the pure white note of redundancy,
the same the same the same
rote echo of saltwater grinding

the shore. All spackle and hum,
nothing static enough to possess. Yes, this

rearranging topography is already a reckoning

point between continuums, an edge
that roils and drifts
across an erasable tracery. Listen.

Even the occasional
egg-smooth hollows of shell

are cupping their own thin hisses.

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2 Responses to Laura Sobbott Ross

  1. Marianne Szlyk says:

    I enjoyed finding this poem!

  2. Robert Krenz says:

    Really good writing; you can almost feel the sand in the cracks between the words.
    Enjoyed the motion in the writing and clear imagery of the beach.

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