I keep crossing out opening lines
of poems about you, unsure
if I’m allowed still to be this angry.
I’ve carried you so long your edges
have been obsessed smooth.

You have enough weight
in my pocket that sometimes
people ask what that noise is
when I walk – that noise
like if a rock had a heartbeat.

You understood the stone and the mud,
the rich earth from which we are all
golemed. You breathed life into anything
in your cupped hands: garden godhead,
your kingdom roses and cabbages.

I didn’t ask how you were held together.
I was left with two handfuls of soil, a rock
which still beats life – a heartstone
against my wallet and my keys.
I am angry whether or not it is allowed.



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