I set my hands upon the stone and left prints
in the dust—so thick you could have swept it
across the threshold and into oblivion.
We who honor dead men's words are wary
of curses, as if even that self-same act
were violation: what bits and motes be bone,
we cannot say. And as for the fabled stone,
it lies deaf to coaxing—no adoration
in verse is sufficient to lift it, not even
the imprint of its master's voice. I'm able
to wait out this ageless recitation
for only so long. Where words fail to gentle,
I'll prise it until my fingers are bloodied
with care: be moved, and I'll yet forebear.
Adrienne J. Odasso
If you've any comments on this poem, Adrienne J. Odasso would be pleased to hear from you.