Millstone Grit
You dare me to race along the unfenced path
at the quarry’s edge, then climb into
it’s gaping mouth. Mid-way,
my foot dislodges a boulder
the size of a child’s head.
We freeze. Millstone grit
strikes one rock, then another,
as if it’s about to ignite.
We wait forever for a soft thud.
You twist your hair around your finger.
I think of bone crazing like china,
The curve of a skull like a
full jug of milk,
slipping from my grip,
splattered over kitchen tiles.
Anne Caldwell
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