Anger Stone
The counselor assigned my son
The task of drawing what he was
Feeling on a rounded gray stone
My boy filled it with indecipherable
Orange etchings like an ancient Aztec relic
I tried to translate his glyphs
Into a rune that unlocked
The loving gentleness of his heart
I held it to my ear like a shell
And could hear the ghostly
Groans of my stern thwarted grandpa
It smelled like the emptiness
Of my dad’s old closet
I placed it against the tip of my tongue
Only to taste hints of the hard
Feast that could be the rest of my life
I held it close before my eyes
Hoping to find the faint outline
Of the shape my son will
Someday sculpt it into,
As soon as he learns to cut
I’d do anything to help him
But all my strongest teeth
Have already been cracked