I run my hand along the surface
and feel a smoothness like volcanic glass.
The granite comes all the way from India,
but when I look closely, I see nebulae.
I see galaxies. I see little black suns
orbited by little black planets,
and on the planets, deep black holes,
dug by broken black bodies.
And I see the black bodies heaving black stones,
and the stones burnished in black blood,
and buffed by black bone
to the smoothness of volcanic glass.
And on the counter I lay bread, apples, cheese,
green olives, and those little swords
we use to stab the olives, so we can lift them
to our mouths without dirtying our hands.
Copyright 2020 JoséAlcantaraFirst appeared in Making Mirrors: Writing/Righting
by and for Refugees