I kept the fist-sized
piece of granite,
once heavy with the pink shades
of feldspar,
the one that I used
when I did you in,
now mottled with
the dried remnant
of the wicked brown
that you painted
our life with so many times;
and mostly now,
I wonder why I kept it:
maybe a souvenir,
maybe a token
for all that left,
all that was broken;
or maybe, one day,
to use it on me.

April 19, 2009. From the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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