Sand Sculpture Number 12 by Lisa McBride

During droughts, we crowded the wooden bridge,
leaning into the railing to watch him. He knelt there,

binding the earth with the sweat of his hands.
Usually, it was the recognizable castle or the packed shell

of a turtle. Some days, he shaped a woman, building
her face out of sand. With a fingertip, he guided the fine,

dry dust of the mother’s eyes to us, curved an arm toward
a child with the side of his hand. He smoothed loose grains

from her cheekbones and fashioned fingernails from small,
white shells newly embedded in land. Along the creek bed,

he gathered hydrilla and weaved hair from the slender strands.
Come closer, he would tell us, you can touch her.


	Lisa McBride Sand Sculpture Number 12 During droughts, we crowded the wooden bridge, leaning into the railing to watch him. He knelt there, binding the earth with the sweat of his hands. Usually, it was the recognizable castle or the packed shell of a turtle. Some days, he shaped a woman, building her face out of sand. With a fingertip, he guided the fine, dry dust of the mother’s eyes to us, curved an arm toward a child with the side of his hand. He smoothed loose grains from her cheekbones and fashioned fingernails from small, white shells newly embedded in land. Along the creek bed, he gathered hydrilla and weaved hair from the slender strands. Come closer, he would tell us, you can touch her.