To Carve a Fossil
1
Wednesday morning is for
the collection of chunked limestone
from its chalky caves, the fast drag
of wet lips on cigarettes—
Wednesday morning
is for the sound rocks make
when laid out to dry
across a lace tablecloth.
2
Once, I found him sleeping
there under the arbor, hair all up
in Drummond Phlox, dirt
smelling, hatching his hands
palm down on his jeans.
Not knowing as ever
where he was.
3
And he whispered
through his febrile sleep,
Someday you’ll just end up
carving through the sky.
4
But in winter, when my skin
cracks deep as the troughs
between grass sleeves,
when my fingers are fastened always
in place, negative space held open
for a spoon chisel—when the vacancy
of air is heavy as satin
bed sheets—his voice croons
loudest, grit-picked and hollow,
sweaty sounds that need changing
or a glass of sculpted ice.
5
Eventually, each facet
of my lips will grow chapped.
Eventually I will wake only
to a dining room table
of transferred history.
