This rock.
You gave me this rock once, and I couldn’t understand its beauty.
You picked at a pile of rubble,
and pulled it from the ground it had come to rest in,
to make part of our world.
I remember not understanding why you picked this rock,
this quiet rock,
but look⏤it fits my chin, fits my lips, my temple, my brow.
There are indentations, and I rest my body in them.
This rock, it is never cold, and I’ve left the dirt on it.
The rest is white; do you remember?
It fits my palm. Did I tell you it fits my palm?
***
This rock.
If you were here now,
you would find me at my desk,
and my paper is still white, and I still stare it down,
and the rock you gave me⏤
it’s in my hand.
I look at this rock, and can see, now or later,
ten years or five,
you, moving across a room,
the way you carry yourself or speak,
the small gestures.
***
I think of the day you found it,
this one white rock I base a love on.
You pulled from the earth a piece of its own creation,
and I only grew to understand its beauty.
It was large, almost awkward,
and the day was so rare,
I had passing thoughts that this rock only dulled it.
***
But the day went on, and in your hands or mine
the rock was with us,
and I held it on the way to the field,
and I held it late at night,
how it fit every crack, every crevice of my body
as if it were the mold for my features
it fits and rests on them so well.
I think of you then,
even you a little awkward,
even you a little plain,
but how, too, you fit
that I could rest my body in you
and retire.
Copyright 2023 Kesel Wilson (entirely, 100% human-created)
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Kesel Wilson 