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issue 5


a poem by
Thomas Reynolds
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What story could I tell my daughter
to spark interest in this stone?
That it was once a mountain
encircled with rings of evergreens
and through erosion
is small and puckered as a walnut?
Possibly place her finger on a vein
and tell her to listen for a pulse?

Tell her this stone is a tiny casket
with stiffening body curled inside
whose spirit escapes into air
when chucked against a wall?
Or that this stone preserved my life
walking toward her in wind gusts,
the rock's slight weight just enough
to keep my body from stuttering away?

Holding out her hand as I draw near,
my daughter clamps her eyes tight,
picturing a whorled red flint chip
or jagged diamond of pink quartzite.
"This is a burnt piece of the moon,
fallen ten million miles to reach you,"
I tell her as I bludgeon her hopes
and slip into her hand this stone.

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