by Christine Barkley
As I walked away from the aftermath I turned my shame
into a stone.
If I wanted to let it go, I don’t remember.
If I could have put it down, I didn’t know how.
With the stone in hand
I crossed the field toward the gravel lot
where I parked my car, which delivered me into and
away from every terrible thing that ever happened.
That place is still a crime scene.
The reports read “theft” and I said
“stolen.” In that word is the idea of some value
that I used to have and I imagine it manifesting
as gems, princess-cut. I think of a necklace of emeralds
and that thought lays a weight at my throat.
The moment I’m aware of the heaviness
it is taken from me; replaced with one more word for “robbery.”
The stone I still carry is almost weightless but that only means
I can’t throw it away. I don’t keep it lightly.
I’m telling you that the more I don’t think about it the more I think about it.
I’m telling you that this is the only way these things happen.
I’m trying to tell you “there are things that I can’t tell you,”
but I can’t. I’m trying to lose a stone in the gravel;
I’m trying to bury this shame under every other shame;
or to turn around, for once, and walk back towards the aftermath.
I’m telling you that I still have nightmares about the things that happened
and this is one of them.
(first published in Little Patuxent Review, Issue 34)
Christine Barkley 