Written by Allison P. Brown
Remember you are the end of a tentacle; first to numb
last to scab and heal. You will need space
and more sets of hands, so clean out a room—
really clear it. Don’t pile boxes of old cords just outside to trip on.
The room should have a window to the west. Open it
no matter the weather.
Everyone should bring the rocks they and their children
have collected that weigh in their pockets and place them
in the center of the room. Take turns each selecting a new one.
Say why; say I like how smooth it is. Say I think
it’s shaped like Nova Scotia. Say the sharp
edge on this one will pierce through ignorance.
When all are claimed walk as one
on a busy street. Be silent but keep moving; be a river.
Hold a rock in each hand and scrape them together. Keep striking
and striking and striking and striking while you march
until the rocks are chipping away and leaving a trail of
crushed stone behind you. Until you need
to replace your rocks. Until they start sparking, until
the mass of people are one firework, bright, loud,
and dangerous.
.
Allison P. Brown is a western New York-based poet and editor. She holds an MFA from Emerson College and now works with student publications and faculty authors across New York state. Her work has appeared in the White Whale Review, Stirring: A Literary Collection, and Lines + Stars.