by Darrell Dela Cruz
A stone forms inside of me.
A collection of salt I consumed
and loved–oversaturated fries,
opaque eggs. For years I let the smoke
rise from oil with the fan off
which for a few minutes set off
the alarm–the escape out to the open;
a mix of clouds like ashes from a funeral pyre.
Ones who were once alive taught me to handle
a boiling pot (never test the heat with the tip
of your finger or the skin will peel away to expose
something raw that would pulsate for days), taught
me to rotate a spit, taught me to leave the oven door
closed. The ones who don’t leave headstones: no
pilgrimage past similar formations, no stepping on grass
covered bodies, no dark colors to wear when I meet them.
Darrell Dela Cruz’s work has appeared in The William & Mary Review, Grasslimb, Rock & Sling, OCA Enizagam, and Thin Air. He has a blog with his misinterpretations of poems: retailmfa.blogspot.com. He graduated with an MFA in Poetry from San Jose State University.
One response to “Stone”
Congrats, Darrell, good for you! Love the poem.