Grey Vild
| THE RIVER STONE POEMS

Because I know you’ll hate this story


There was a woman who found the perforations you etched into my skull. When she was done with the removal, her counters were littered with river stones. Each one you stole from my pockets like days. Each one fit to my palm, was also made to fit yours. I got them back, somehow. & so, I want to remember your kindnesses. I only remember the thunder clasping as we fell. Such a short distance, you wouldn’t think—
She makes me out of stone & I


Frighten the children into rubble. Serve us tea brewed from their gravel dust. On a throne of debris, we have eschewed every sign that read tear here & then, you. do it anyway. The idols we leashed to the cracked howl of the cathedral are fleshlike trophies I pour at your feet. What thud, dud clunks from me; filth, in the wake of. Ripples, granite-like & spine. But the columns, we’re poured concrete. & the walls & the places where we touched,              all along, a terrible sound that won’t shut up.
She makes me out of stone &


sunken & erected, statued & defaced, sisyphean & reduced to. Skipped & sunk, again, marked & marked with. She makes me out of stone & my insides gag on chipped grins. She makes me out of stone & I feast on drought, wring loose a wave of rapid erosion & she makes me out. of the failure to know who or what feeds me, as green water curls what neither breathes nor refuses, now. & shit pocks my eyes or a carriage of stone can never be filled with— who knew & talked to stones? Some days it’s like I got you back from the riverbed. Or the moment of dream (purer than dream what is purer than dream only death no you idiot it is love)
when they pulled out the knives you had given them.
She makes me out of stone & I


sicken the edges. You won’t believe me. Go to her kitchen. Pillage her counters. Throw every chunk of river you find there through whatever is left of you.
You’re the blue sugar that coats my teeth


night as leaving your smallest self behind. Open the doors on the storm, bent around what is not prayer, all these years. Later, she assures me over coffee, every symptom is normal. You would like her. She opens me like a river stone. I mean, she leaves me be. Shows me I am still cool with the muck & run of it, that we are water-like, even as stone. I mean, some perforations lead only to more til there is no longer a substance divided just tearing & tearing I mean a life becomes one final—