Today, I held in my palm
a rounded, flecked stone.
It was heavy, the size and shape
of a small skull.

I crooned to it, saying
tell me what you know
of birdsong, of burials,
of ice houses. Give me something
I'll never have
with my many bones.

Of course, nothing I did
would make the stone yield,
not coaxing nor stroking.
I even ran it under water
until it shone like a real beauty.

I tried to make up a story
about this stone,
but it obliterated my lifeline,
and without a forseeable future,
I couldn't think straight.

Finally I threw it hard against the
side of my house.
What else can you do with
resistance like that?

On my mantel now,
the stone is smug, intractable,
all bound up in its mottled surface.
I think I'll live another day
and another after that.

Don't mock me, stone.
I'll throw you back for another.