I’ve seen lot of poems on stones
These days, poems with stones in them,
Poems with stones for hearts, and poems
With stones as old gifts passed down,
And poems on minds turned to stone,
And poems of bones smashed by stones,
And so on. And all these poems,
What do they share? Not a tongue,
Not a state. A state of mind?
The stone’s their sign for the world
Of rules made to crush the ruled
By those who think they should rule.
It’s these names, and not the named.
As soon as named, the names change.
Each in its own tongue, its own state
Of dread where the rules are cruel,
Poems grasp the sign of the stone
As a sign of pain, of harm—
What has been thrown can be thrown.
Hold my own. My face is stone.
