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
Well done, Tony. Excellent images and perfect last line.
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Thanks, Eric. I guess you survived another hurricane.
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Wow! Yes. This one hit me hard. Thank you
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Made me swallow hard.
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