Small Stone 2nd place winner of the Reuben Rose Poetry Competition, 2021
I have no idea where you came from
or why I didn’t think of this before:
how grief has forced me to become the other—the thing—
white dolomite, coarsely crystalline,
pleated through with gray.
I don’t mind gray; I am grayer now too.
My body all sharp points, broken crests,
shaped into jagged angles. Without him,
I am both primitive and new.
Stone, I don’t know where my beloved found you
but know where I am taking you.
In July when the air is too moist for movement,
I will move with you anyway toward
his headstone, place you on its crest with certainty.
What does certainty have to do with death? Or stones?
I want to fill myself
with something he touched—an assurance of atoms—
as if I could become that tap or trace or air between them.
Stone, if I eat you, will you become
perfect wisdom inside of me?
How does a thing vanish?
I don’t know, but you my stone
blotched through with agreeable gray,
won’t petal-drop or fade away,
even when I am lost or becoming.
Listen to the poem being read HERE.