Worry Stone

Worry Stone

You must seek

the ashy nest itself

if you hope to find

charred feathers, smouldering flightbones,

and a twist of singing flame

rekindling.

                        Denise Levertov

                        “Hunting the Phoenix”

And then, when everyone else had said

their awkward required goodbyes,

when the curtain was still and we were

alone, your bony cold hand, a curled bird’s

wing, seemed the heaviest thing

in your tomb.  Washed and released

before the sheet was drawn over the rock

your face had set itself into, I kissed

the mouth that spoke that drank

that ate.  I kissed the mouth that drew

and blew breath.  I kissed and kissed

I could not not.  I could not turn

the faucet off.  I washed you over so

thoroughly your skin was a mirage of life.

Prepared then they set the stone

in front of you.  Between you and me, it’s no

heavier than the stones you took

from the palms of the crowd who then

turned their back on you.  I’d put one,

did you see me? like a bird, in my mouth.

I knock it now against my clenched cheek.

Like it’s a fist at a door.  Like it is small

enough to swallow.  Like in years to come

it will be, bits and bits smooth as a sea

made worry stone, perfect, soft as your eye-

lid, the sheet wrapping you, the dust

covering you through to Sunday.