They said “consider the mountains” and I considered them
Your sharp edges were not your fault
But that didn’t stop you cutting us with them;
Your sting–more bee than wasp,
An attack of self-evisceration–
Pulling out your own entrails even as you wounded us;
I hung back, afraid of the anaphylactic shock of you.
I pried apart the shells of my ribs for you and let you into my soft oyster center
But these pearls were never intended to be bullets for you to shoot me with.
I have lost your poem.
Sometimes I walk up the dusty path through the dry grass
Under the ancient arch of crumbling stone
To where the path trails into the colorless water
And I lay my bones down
Just at the water’s edge among the reeds