Author: Ryan Stone
-
If I Could Write
If I could writethe best poem ever written,it wouldn’t be carved in stoneor read aloud to thunder. It would be quiet—just your namefolded into a lineonly you would notice. It would knowhow your hands shookthe day you held someonewho didn’t stay,how you once criedinto the collar of your coatso no one would see. It would…
-
Blacktop & Burn Marks
We hit the highwaylike it owed us something—two beers deep,one taillight out,her boots on the dashand my name on her lipslike a dare. Pickup rattledwith the sound of bad wiringand worse music.She tuned the radioby punching it,and it worked. She lit a jointoff the cigarette lighter,passed it without looking.Said,“If we crash,don’t bother calling my mother.”…
-
In the Shade of the Tree Ferns
No path here.Just damp earth,moss on stone,and the slow, deliberate hushof growing things. Tree ferns arc overhead,fronds wide as arms,filtering lightinto something sacred. I brought my sons here,when their legs were smalland full of mud.They squatted in the black soil,drew patterns with sticks,found joyin a single wriggling earthworm. The ferns, the filtered light—none of it…
-
Instructions for Holding a Heart
Use both hands,even if it looks small.Especially then. Do not squeeze,poke,test its reflexes.It’s not a trick muscle. Keep it warm,but not too close to flame.It remembers burning. When it trembles,don’t panic.They all do.Just be still,and let it findits own rhythm again. Do not fill itwith your own silence.It needs space,not emptiness. If it cracks,and it…
-
Paw Print
Years since—his bowl gone,yard grown over,collar hangingunused. This morning,cleaning the window,I found it—one print,low in the corner,half lost to light. It floored me.Solid.Sure.The weight of himin a single mark. I stoodcloth in hand,his breathsuddenly in the room. Didn’t wipe it.Didn’t move. Just watchedas the sun warmed the glassand brought himloping backthrough the yardand the years.…
-
She Carries the Ocean in Her Spine
She never saidwhat it cost to hold the world. Just straightened her backwhen it sagged,tightened the threadwhen it frayed,made dinnereven when her hands shook. Her spine—a tide chart.Each vertebramarked by wavesshe never let break. You wouldn’t know itto look at her—how many stormsshe swallowed. How many timesshe floodedand heldanyway. Some call it strength.But strength is…
-
The Way They Run to Her
It’s not a question,just instinct.A scraped knee,a bad dream,the kind of achethey can’t name yet. They run to herlike rivers find the sea.Like they always knew the way. She doesn’t brace.Just opensarms, voice,that face that saysI’ve got you. There’s magic in it.Not the wand-waving kind,but the kind that knowswhich night light to leave on,how to…
-
The Shape My Name Takes in Your Mouth
It’s differentwhen you say it. Softer,like it’s something you foundand didn’t want to break. No rush.You let it settleon your tongue,curl in the warmthbetween breath and meaning. Sometimesyou barely say it at all—just hum itinto my shoulder,or murmur itto the space betweensleep and waking. I’ve heard itshouted,slurred,scrawled on formsand barked in anger. But from you,it’s…
-
The Sound of Men Not Crying
Grief came quiet—shoved in gloveboxeswith old rego papersand blunt toolskept for no reason. Tears weren’t banned,just lostbetween Dad’s silenceand busted knuckles,between she’ll be rightand a doorthat clicks shut slow. We didn’t crywhen the dog died,didn’t cry at the funeral,didn’t crywhen she walked out. Just sat there.Fence posts in floodwater. We breakin the gut,in the jaw,in…
-
Where the Sky Begins
I was born to dirt roadsand paddocks stitched with fence wire—a sky too big for pockets,and stars that never felt far. Kookaburras laughed me awake,and magpies taught mewhich trees were theirs.The gum trees never asked for praise,but earned it,standing through wind and fire. There’s grace in the dry of it—in creeks that vanish,then come back…
