< monomers

What might be the story of a stone,
if stones can be said to have stories?
Accounts vary; though here are four
pebbles collected by the wayside.

....

1. Smoothness as death

I was once sharp and bright—glittering
with the fiery cold indifference
of a newly forged January sun.
My imperfect edges made me
dangerous.

But now I am the smoothness
of a river rock, sunk deep
into the mossy silt of the river,
the same as you and him and her,
forgotten and forgetting
my selves.

The currents pass over me,
through me.
Where are my contours?

In perfection we find death.

....

2. Smoothness as life

Or is it instead:
that in death we find perfection?

For I was once sharp and bright.
I flashed with the hubris of pyrite,
scorning the dull
and equating light with worth.

But now see my subtle gleam,
my jagged edges filed down
so fate cannot grab me–I
slip through, sly and wise.

Watch now, how the currents pass
around me.

Look at the circle,
is it not the holiest
of shapes?

....

3. Texture as death

But that is also not quite right.

For, one could say:

I once was smooth and perfect,
as we all were before,
sinless and hopeful and glinting
in the tawny rays of dawn—
but behold, the ravages of time
have beat me down and chipped
me away.

Now I am craggy and rough
and weary.
We all start the same and end
with only our wounds
to mark us apart:
I flake as easily as shale.

....

4. Texture as life

Or finally: I once was a rock
like all the others,
smooth and unblemished
and with nothing
to call my own.

But the master craftsman Time
found me, and chipped away
the unessential.

Now I am a geode:
cut and shining and beautiful—
my true color revealed,
I catch the dusky sun and
sparkle with a hundred facets
in this lingering late light,
I contain multitudes,
I am unique,
I am me.

....

Which is the true stone?
Are they the same stone?

I am not a stone. Stones cannot
choose their stories, though flesh
may be malleable. I have seen myself
and others, in each pebble
soliloquy, each myriad way
a life is framed. But unlike rock
I can shape my own form,
and will reshape it as I please.
Let me become the story
that I now choose to tell.

---

This poem was written for the CCSF Introductory Poetry class in Spring 2020.