Tears. Breath. Rage. Stone.
The perfect image clutched in my hand
I coax it to paper,
and sob as it burrows deeper into my fist.
I resort to a squall of words.
My chest rises and falls, my heart pounds
The tattoo of a life still lived.
Salt. Wind. Flame. Bone.
My friend offered to hold my anger for me
Until I could take it up again.
A lifetime later and I still gasp with the wonder
and relief
of a burden shared.
Infant. Daughter. Mother. Crone.
I offer this pebble from a shaking hand,
Secret handshake, we know who we are.
Veins racing with memory, I offer this tiny thing
For you to drop from your aching hand and stand upon.
Sarah Gowan, 10/15/2015
