The Most Tactile of Stones
by Joel Vega

 

Their husbands grow gills when the heavens howl.
And scales- razor-edged and opaque,
Almost pearly to the touch as if their lives were spent
Searching for green fires, as if the entrances
To ancient caves are always barred.
                    
                      Marmo, peitra arenaria, granito, profido

They attempt to master the language of escape
How to respond to sudden rain, to outrace
A bolt of lightning or seize a break in the sky.
When the winds roll across the plains, uproot the trees
They abandon softness and embrace the truth of their sex
                  
                      Marmor, sandstein, granit, porphyr

Their hair picks up the scent of mud, their eyes deepen
When the sea heaves they know they must navigate their way
Provide a safe bosom to their young. In a million years
Their passage will be duly recorded (they will turn to rust)
Their feats examined (they will turn to ammonite).
                   
                      Marbre, grès, granit, porphyre

First published in Poetry Salzburg Review 2005.

© Joel Vega

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