I picked up a rock yesterday
Just when we were clearing the road
An odd gravel, nothing more
Feeling secretive, I held it,

close in my palm

They'd make me put it down, of course...

I brought it home, left it by the sink
I'd clean it after the potatoes,

no one would notice

Dirt and leaves fall like scabs
and dyed the porcelain a sandy tan
A touch from a mummified hand

I wrapped it in a towel and carried it
to my bedroom, left beneath my bed

among slippers and heavy sweaters

It didn't shine; it wasn't smooth,
but I planned on nature taking over
At the time, I feel twelve.

I lay in bed, contemplating the ceiling
painted in broad white rolls,

yet jagged like the Moon

Everything above the roof was so far away,
most of all Heaven,
which I don't believe in anyway

I draped my arm over the edge of the bed,
reaching under for my stone of ages,

a safe for recent times

It knew my thoughts and feelings
It eroded itself with my life
A sick acid, biting inferno

I held the rock up to my ear and listened
as if it were a seashell that sang

but its secrets stayed locked up

Had it heard my outpourings?
It's a rock, stupid, a rock. Cold.
I put it under my pillow.

I close my eyes and wash again
collecting dirt along my way

for my cleansing stone

Dirt on sheets is inconsequential
Worse things stain me daily
but I manage to keep one thing clean.

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