Laurel writes from northeast Ohio.

Where, once? At land’s
end. Or, ocean’s

beginning. You picked
a pebble from the foamy

sand and pressed it
in my hand. I pretended

it was love. Back then,
I was silly. Small

and white and round,
I tucked the pebble beneath

my tongue. I’ve carried
that gift in my mouth

ever since, a stone
fetus that rattles against

my teeth, that tastes, still,
faintly, of salt.

Of course, it wasn’t love
at all, but death

you gave me, a tiny bone,
the petrified heart

or solid skull of the baby
I never had

enough hope to have.
Back then, you knew me

too well. I was silly.
Where, once?

In my mouth.
Or, your hand.

At the ocean’s end.
Or land’s beginning.
 

© Laurel K. Dodge 2006