Stone #7

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

(I count the rocks like Papa

counted the stones of Mama’s old rosary)


So what to give this child version of myself

besides a box of gravel,

a story about a boy who made fun of my father,

a BB gun borrowed with wounded pride,

a bird killed with male-ego aim,

and a busted-out living room window,

(screaming to me still like a tear-wounded eye)?

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

How to explain to him

Do a thing like him and you’ll do it too

the fears I have of

him dealing with the gifts I’ve given him without giving,

the blood I’ve bled to him without bleeding?

(Stone six, sixth from the cross).  But my stone is

somewhere in the box.

With feigned interest, I search.

Having found it,

I throw the box down

with a cardboarded crash.

Stones spill


A knock on the door.

With that time-polished adolescent stealth,

I lock the door

and sit back down.

But where is Stone #7?


One thought on “Stone #7

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