By Maria Cohut
It was the last pebble
on the shore,
all the other pebbles blown away or eaten.
The sea is a great beast –
a behemoth, an infinite slug,
its foam the radula that grits and grates and grinds
the remains of our small lives into sand, then
I held the last pebble.
On my palm, it was weightless –
a pure soul, unburdened
by pleasures and sorrows –
and my palm and the pebble
I knew I could no longer live without it.
The sea would have to swallow us
This is not a parable.
Walk far enough and you will find us:
a pebble on a palm on the shore.
Maria Cohut is a writer, independent researcher, and science communicator based in Brighton, U.K. Her writing has appeared in the Haiku Journal, The Found Poetry Review, Eunoia Review, and Doll Hospital Journal, among others. She also blogs about life and her love of all things bizarre at Encyclopaedia Vanitatum. On Twitter, she can be found @mariascohut.