The Stone Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

I carried my father’s life around
not like some charm or locket
but like a stone
in my coat pocket.

Like the tongue worrying a sound
my hand could not leave it alone.

Rough patches, even cracks, were polished
against cloth as fingers wound
it round and round
like a watch rapidly running down.

In my coat pocket each
and every day
always within reach
so heavy so heavy it lay
that the coat pulled out of shape

my fingers kneading
to need the feel of its rough
cracked edges as if that were enough.

But always in the mirror the coat
so out of shape, one side
dragged skew by a lump
like something stuck in my throat
that would not let me breathe
or chew.

Even after I threw
the stone away
day after day
the coat still hung skew

with only the thought
of the stone now there

for one is not taught
by the absence of things to bear
the pain that wants to be round
as a whole word’s sound
but is only a stone so rough
it can never be polished enough.