A stone can be just
how smooth and black--
you would not believe.
I could give you one
to run my ankles
raw and red.
It is cold enough
and shallow, yet.
Growing
until I stopped
where I grew,
behind this house:
the creek
I wanted to own.
In its silt
I'd have buried myself
and you too--
after i'd cut out
your sour tongue,
taught you how smooth
a stone can be.
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very nice, i see (presumably) that you employed the "lets see what kinda language comes of working backwards" and its very successful in many places...especially the 2nd stanza. im on my way out..but will respond more in depth when time allows.
ReplyDeleteYeah, I'd like to spend some more time gettin' to know this poem later...but just on a first, quick read it kicked my ass pretty hard, especially the smoothness of the rock returning at the end. I think, also, the title is distracting in it's length/religious connotations/sense of ritual, while the poem itself is arresting and singular. Something to ponder.
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