Poem for Susan

We speak the language of stone.

Quartzite, granite, pumice, slate,
the eternal rake

of tide
and sea.

While we walk,
you point your cane,

bottle caps, wires,
the rusted intestines

of lobster traps,
I fetch them,

ridding the beach of

unwanted accessories.

At home, you pile stones
in plastic containers,

by the sink,
on the hutch,

in a box stored
deep in the basement.

Now, you solicit requests,

and though
I remain voiceless,

you know.

“Get the black stone,” you say.

We bring samples to your bedside,

malachite, jasper,
and a composite,

disparate forms,
fused together.

Just as I realize
these stones 

and love,

will last forever,

again you point.

This time, grey,
etched with striations.

A heart rock, folded into itself,

pocket-sized,
with a hollow

just the right shape
to rub at with my thumb.