River Stone Poem by Ben Partenay

My stone is black and
cracked three ways
but it still won't break.

When I was young, and
they told me over and over
that I was young, I cracked
once and the water and
salt chipped away at my
stone, then hardened.

When I was young they
told me I had to stand
on shoulders to see
the great wide world
but I saw the world from
below where no one
looked. They looked down
at me and I, up at
them.
Both of us staring
in the direction
of our future.

My stone is black, and heavy
some days, I can
feel it in my pocket
full of gravity and
longing for the center of
the earth. My first
kiss was like this. I
still feel it pulling me.
But my stone is small and
I toss it up
to catch it
in my other hand,
a hand that has not lost.

I am older now and my stone
is smoother. We move away
from likenesses. We feel our
sand we've trailed on behind
us in our lives like many
small gods we all at once
thought important. This is
the story of it all.

My stone is black and cracked
three ways, once for each
time I lost faith, and
found it. Tell me,
do you feel it?
the pull? the gravity?
The way we break
and keep on breaking.