I Got a Rock

by Shaina

The trouble with being a geode is
when to crack…there’s that easy cool of
being a lone stone…little comforts
like the smirk of the sun now and again…but
knowing that affinity for the cold that
sticks on rock.  How remaining weathered
connotes fearlessness, which is the point, or
so it feels, anyway, but the body is so heavy even with the
hollow in the crystalline guts.  A desire to
be turned inside out and sparkle in the
chilly air is the motion for cracking.  The
warmth of a home calls for that display of
amethyst…a pair of hands calms the exterior…
asks will you show yourself?  Maybe a warm
mouth to melt in and turn to pop
rocks, like in a dream.  But inevitability dictates that cracking
precedes becoming some shelve-able sedimentary, a
souvenir, maybe.  So you grapple with that poor desire for
fissure–to say, see how my hollowness
is framed in purple.  See how my greyness is so
thin.  And so you are.

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