WHAT’S THE ROCK?

 

Not the bubbling up

of magma

from the earth’s core

that cools on the surface.

Not igneous.

Not granite.

Not quartz.

 

Not found in the continental crust.

In mountains and rivers.

In monuments.

Not this.

 

It’s something else.

Something unseen

that I carry and have

from my origin.

 

A thing made of imperfections.

A poker chip in my back pocket

from a bad gamble.

A halitosis of the heart.

 

It lives inside

everything I do

and how I do it.

Like fear.

Like pride.

Self-pity.

 

It is something I must drop

like a rock, but can’t.

Not when my will is in the way

of my willingness.

 

It is a weight that only

the pulleys and practice of prayer

can lift and relieve.

 

And they will

once I learn to let go.