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The Unveiling

Rain skinning granite.

I lay the flat of my palm, let
pools gather between fingers,

streams skim the blue veins down.

This is the real, I know it –
stone, rain, blood, December cold –

the irresistible claim of the material.

And then there’s you, love – or rather
the absence of you – how the morning,

gored by your departure, healed

without a scar, emptied even
the watery syllables of your name,

cut deep into polished black stone.

Here, my hand reaching – and there
my own hand reaching back.



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