too much coffee, too little sleep, a love of words…
I lit it behind the shed
with a match I struck on the tin—
my thumb raw from trying.
The cigarette trembled
between fingers that still knew
Lego and scraped knees.
I didn’t cough.
Didn’t blink.
Just held the burn in
like I was keeping a secret
only smoke could understand.
The dog watched,
head tilted,
like he knew I’d crossed
into something I couldn’t uncross.
By the time Mum called for tea,
my breath was fire and hush,
and I’d decided
not to be a boy anymore.
Ryan Stone
Advertisement for Myers Gloves, by Margaret Watkins (Canada), 1920s.
Mother’s Hands
Strong enough to lift me
each time I couldn’t rise. Soft
as cotton wool, washing
dirt from scrapes and tears
from eyes. Firm enough
to model clay
and boys, to bowls
and men, yet fine
when stroking ivory keys–
Für Elise and Clair de Lune.
They’d curl through each long evening
around her only vice, in a holder
like Audrey’s, that never left her side.
I’m thinking of her hands now–
strong and wild and free; missing
her hands now, as I watch ashes
blow to sea.
Ryan Stone
Written for the 20 poem challenge at Ekphrastic, September 2016.
First published at Ekphrastic, September 2016
days of stone 