Unpolished

for Skylar

I had found the stone in the snow,
in the space between mountains and ocean,
between rabbits and sandpipers,
between past and future.
I collected her because she is beautiful;
rough hewn and cold,
delicate dusty green nestled in white,
a homogeneous frozen expanse.
I picked her up, rolled her around in my hand,
snow melting through my fingers,
dripping holes into the snow below.
Her texture was porous and it transported me
to the hand of my father’s grandmother.
I’d hold the old woman’s hand as she
told me about her youth, about boys.
Her hands were forged through decades,
shaped and textured in iron-rich soils
and in the kneading of bread.
I recalled boulders along the Red River
where I had not yet learned to be ashamed
of my flamboyance and the swish of my hips.
I remembered running my hands along the surface
of a stone I sat on, my red shoes dangling
above the water streaming by,
wishing I could meld with the river and the trees
and become a part of the mountains of New Mexico.
I looked back at my new treasure, perfectly natural.
I could tumble her as I had tumbled the stones
collected in my youth, from New Mexico
or from my grandmothers garden,
or else purchased at a store especially to polish.
She would shine in the sun, glossy and brilliant,
and her colors would become intense and rich.
I had found the stone in the snow,
in the space between rough and smooth,
between male and female,
between sadness and joy.
I collected her because she is perfect.
I took the rock with me, displayed her
among the treasured glossy specimens,
those enchanting pieces that I admire daily,
somehow now so ordinary.

Notes

Written 17 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Unpolished” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)