Sunder

earthen grooves smooth against rash-flecked skin,

meeting of imperfections. one old as time,

reused and remade through endless cycles

of transformation, curved and eroded by the years

to fit neatly into the crook of my palm, that soft wrinkle

between thumb and index finger, as if made to be held.

or perhaps I am made to hold, imprint of each

jagged edge smoothed into palm creases, love lines. 

perhaps I am crafted from that same clay, 

each cell in my body recycled from all the bodies 

that have come before me, softened by the years. 

I have always been drawn to the texture of stone, 

sensory sanctuary from biting sand and crashing wave. 

collected them since I was young, like memories,

pulled them from rock pools as ocean lashed, distant.

the stone grounds me—in my body, in this wild place—

gravitational pull that tethers me to the family of things. 

each stone a memory worn and weathered by the act

of remembering. embedded in muscles, in reflexes,

inheritance. abraded into smooth narratives that fit neatly

in a child’s palm, splinters hidden, buried in my own skin.

adult hands moulded to grasp my past, made by the holding.

I wear my stones like a garment, place each with care

along bowed shoulders, cloak of quartz and sandstone 

and granite. eroded into love lines, life lines, who-I-am lines that

trace my bodily imperfections. cricked back heavy with history

that has become baggage – each memory formed and shaped 

and held, too tightly, illusion of safety created by ritual.

afraid to loosen my grip, untangle, release tense shoulders, 

let stones fall and skip and shudder. cloak become armour,

indistinguishable from skin, its immense weight 

a comforting blanket against vulnerability. afraid 

of unmaking, of selfhood splintering, of remaking.

I have lost sight of the cliffs as they erode, buffeted 

by salt-waves, cycles of decay and rebirth always in motion; 

closed my ears to the song of sea, of change, of frayed edges.

time to let stones tumble free, no longer obstacle to the 

new-old thing God is already doing—in my body, 

in this wild place—soft as scarred palms.