Children's Center

I remember the feeling of rice at the rice table
The fine white dust
I was never satisfied
Maybe a bottomless table would have been enough
The better to plunge my hands
One worries about children drowning
I have heard stories of accidents in silos
People like to use silos to say we are alone
Some children would grab your arm and in a dead voice say
why are you hitting yourself
They were tuned into a station
I wanted the rice to not stick to my hands
I wanted to be the sound of the rice falling down
It was an old sound
You could find a red plastic word like positivity buried in the rice
It was the wrong shape
The right shape was hands but the problem was sweat
They asked me why I had not gone outside with the others
I could not find the words to explain