Stones

My friend told me

it’s like a stone in your pack

nestled 

between bedroll and camp

stove, a slowing. 

a pebble in your shoe

not yet rounded.

She said

it’s like a ball bouncing 

in a room 

full of buttons.

each time a button is brushed, it brings you to your knees.

I said

in anger I threw wet

stones

into the fire.

watched them 

burst into shrapnel. 

the sharp edges

of shattered bone. 

I said

grief is love stuck up against 

something

love with nowhere to go.

eventually, 

a rerouting

a reshaping

a room 

expanding.

in time, bones knit themselves 

together.

I gather the shards to put in my 

pack.

I am 

everyone lost,

and all the stones I carry.