Stones are not rocks are formed
in the body, mineral salts
a hardened substrate
an aggregate
all you couldn’t release
held like granite in the gut
shame is a stone
the strong arm of
tradition, a trajectory
that maims
writing these
words on my body
ink punctures the skin
calcification in soft tissue
chemical bonds
breaking bones
stones are metamorphs
a lump in my hand
crumbles to sand
insubstantial, fake tough
almost nothing
in absence of motion
lying on the stony path
an ache in the upper belly
leaves an imprint on the ground
unclothed, unhinged
your missive hits home
just when I thought
I was finally safe.
Hard and harder. Wonderful, Magdalena.
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