with carved giraffes and camels no reptiles no amphibians nothing

from the sea although she loved the sea her passion was for stones

I don’t know why the parquet floor never buckled and caved collapsed

into the rooms below her rooms all the horizontal surfaces were covered

with stones the bureau the cupboards the closets were full of the precious

stones she wore at her throat her ears her fingers her wrists the inlaid

tables held ceramic bowls of polished stones the antique desk a basket

of stones a bushel of stones on the floor on the windowsills more stones

each one unique each one a narrative the étagère held up to the light stones

hewn from the source and hauled up here still jagged refracting every

shade of amethyst her birthstone like my mother’s crystals shimmering

as if alive rescued from the field the cliff the shore the riverbed I found

a single cufflink by her bed a tiny diamond set in silver did her father

sift out at his flour mill the dangerous stones I stretched out beside her

in her bad time thinking to help her sleep I held her hand her fingers wore

a few of her favorite rings the two of us lay entirely still atop the quilt

a stiff sarcophagus she didn’t sleep her mind was an etched plate

from which she drew off print after print the framed prints on the walls

were all interiors our talk had always been a stone kicked down a hill

no purpose no destination her father her mother my mother my dogs

she never said she was leaving me in charge she wasn’t my mother why

put me in charge I put the jewels on other throats and wrists I threw away

the bushels of cosmetics and perfume her chosen armaments

against the world who loved the world I sold the breakfront

cabinet full of cut-glass bowls and blown-glass figurines but who

will save the living stones she loved I have so many already

in my yard half-in half-out of the earth immovable

she’d seen my yard she’d seen those heavy stones

OAK

not to board the bus but wait for the last bell

like those who live in town shuffling ahead of her the clumps

drift apart drift back shifting boys in a cluster now a boy and a girl

a dance a recess game as each is subtracted one by one into the houses

she passes the windows half-lidded by half-drawn shades

or framed by curtains and sash she likes

walking alone

along the verge of the lawns no fence no field the leaves

drifting out from under the oaks while in the woods

they would only settle and rot she likes the way a passing car

releases them across the grid of the sidewalk a solid math

for a solitary girl the small steps into the larger

world of strangers wholly indifferent houses cars rust-colored dog