The Stone

September 11, 2008

Her love was a stone

that she kept at the bottom of a
plastic bag, canvas wrapped and
quietly breathing, swathed in dark,
underneath the sink in her tiny kitchen –

where she buried it –
covered over by a newsprint of excuses:
things she said, stories that she wove
to insulate her need for love.

She used to carry it around
inside a woolen sock,
a dozen paper serviettes,
whatever came to hand.

She’d hold it safe inside her pocket,
try to still it’s constant muttering – words
that stirred her hair in sudden gusts,
pulled her through the streets like arms.

It was a patch of sun, a waiting gun,
something dangerous, best not touched.

Sometimes, in the night
she hears it calling through the flat.
She catches feet against her calves
stumble over to it’s bag –

She has no need for love.

She tells it this, through a crack – but later,
she will find – it laid across her open palms,
glowing like an angel,
there to save –

or break apart.

3 Responses to “The Stone”

  1. rick mobbs said

    you must be busy. what’s new? i like this imaginative, feeling thing.

  2. Yes, vvvvv.busy. Just started an MA in writing (Poetry in first year) I think the U.S equiv would be the MFA? Thanks for being interested in my stuff though. I’ve got a gig next week and plan on doing this one – though I’ve redrafted ever so slightly. Will be putting the new version up in a bit. Just as soon as I clear some time to reconnect with my blog!

  3. Haven’t heard anything from you in AGES!
    But I really love this one.

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