The morning after, we silently move around each other, pouring cups of coffee, careful not to touch— at the table, I watch you set your jawline in stone, indestructible as ancient engineering
Like a red velvet ant, I crawl up the side of that angry arch, stinging lip and tongue that forms the words, I scratch at your keystone, your stony core, filled with hardened pitch, your stock-in-trade, This will take some time
Voussoirs shift imperceptibly, sudden tension at the crown, a twitch at the corner of your mouth only I can see, your chin can’t contain the forces of the thrust
Obsidian colored rage comes crashing to the ground, as black as your heart, thunderous sound, revealing a crueler landscape than I could have ever imagined
Slowly, I gather up the scattered stones, I’ll dig a hole and patiently wait for transcendent rainwater to collect, and carefully place them around the edges of my shining pond, where triumphant, exhausted red velvet ants can rest, bulbous red and black bodies blazing in the sun, and iridescent Blue and Green fish swim, the colors of Peace and Solitude.
F.D. Jackson lives in the southeastern U.S., along with sundry furry family members. She writes about loss/grief and the restorative and transformative power of nature. When she is not reading or writing, she can be found wandering the Gulf Coast with a cold drink in her hand. F.D.’s work has appeared in Book of Matches and Poetry Breakfast. She has work forthcoming in Feral and Plum Tree Tavern.
