In the woods, a stack of rock
and I imagine a grave, though I know
it is not. I want to memorialize the day,
to feel a feeling like wringing
out a dirty rag until the water goes clear.
I don't want to call this clean, no, I want
to call it spent. I imagine this is the same
feeling that went into piling the rocks
in their cairn and remember the lovesick
man who drove as far as he could to meet
a woman he didn't know, telling us a story
about his trip, the lonely road, just strange
rock cairns everywhere as prayers. I remember
he said prayers and I thought: yes,
I'd try to mouth something along that kind of road.
Look, I'm doing it now, aren't I?
To all the saints of the lost and losing and those
who are yet to know they are caught, to all
the boys I have loved and the ones who have
been cruel to themselves and to me, but also
for the tenderest among us, those with wounds
that are not able to be stacked, but which
bleed like dye when all you want is to run clean,
run clear, run.

Ruth Williams

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