Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts


by Ann Keniston


I dared myself to go past the breach

until again

some little or great thing prevented me


and then sometimes without trying I felt a loosening,

was giddy and free


because to have survived means knowing

what it is not to have survived

and also the dumb luck of having been

one minute too late


or else a nearly contentless

lifting up of voice




waves slapping the shore, moving sideways and up,

spraying foam all over the rocks.