POEM: The Stone

The Stone

A moth's wing is folded so still inside a closed fist.

That is what waiting is like—

something pressing between palms,

neither crushed nor released—

How dangerous.

Tonight the heart has a bite.

And tonight the fire comes early.

It laces the grass with silver wire

and turns my breath to glass.

My knees find the death of a lost dream.

How it chews through some stone half-buried between the soles of my boots—

Between my thighs—

cherry stone alone,

—unloved.

Then I brought my ear to the ground

and heard the stone again tonight.

and then I heard nothing.

Not silence

Not for any reason—

not the absence I can name.

It sits in our silence.

A hum so low in my pocket,

A note uncaptured in the air.

Marni Fraser

0601.2026

Self Portrait | 0108.2020