Echolalia (Ovid III)

She was not failing. She was answering him.
Ovid was in a hurry. Ovid had his say.
The hour went quiet at the far edge of the dim.

Ovid was in a hurry. Ovid had his say.
Hers went out and came round, went out and came round.
This is how she keeps time. This is how she keeps the day.

Hers went out and came round, went out and came round.
His stayed where it was and stayed, and made no sound.
The voice comes off the rockface one beat late.

His stayed where it was and stayed, and made no sound.
He knelt at the pool. He knelt there at his ease.
The flower opens at its hour and does not wait.

He knelt at the pool. He knelt there at his ease.
"Come here," he said, and the trees took up the plea.
She gave him back the words he had given the breeze.

"Come here," he said, and the trees took up the plea.
Come here came here came here, but never quite the same.
She learned to live inside the echo of the day.

Come here came here came here, but never quite the same.
She was not failing. She was answering him.
Ovid was in a hurry. Ovid had his say.

Stim Rock

Skim stone stim rock—
round the worry, round the clock.
I keep rocks inside my pockets,
little weights against the shock.

Rocks in pockets.
Rocks in shoes.
Rocks I find and rocks I choose.

Smooth ones.
Dark ones.
One with a white line running through it
like a vein.

I carry them home.

I don't know why.

I only know
my hands know.

Skim stone stim rock—
thumb against the weathered edge.
Something solid. Something ancient.
Something I can make a pledge.

The world says:

empty your pockets.

But I have spent my whole life
putting things in them.

Pebbles.
Shells.
Glass worn soft by water.
The little evidence
that I was here.

Skim stone stim rock—
round the worry, round the clock.
When my head becomes too crowded,
I put a rock against the noise.

One in the left pocket.
One in the right.

A small geology
of getting through the night.

I rub them until they warm.

I rub them until
they almost breathe.

I rub them because the body
needs somewhere to put
what the mouth cannot say.

They call it a habit.

They call it a tic.

They call it something
I should stop.

But my hands are older
than their instructions.

My hands remember
what the mind forgets:

stone survives pressure.

Stone survives weather.

Stone survives
being carried.

Skim stone stim rock—
round the worry, round the clock.

I keep rocks inside my pockets
like small moons.

Like little hearts.

Like proof
that something hard
can still become smooth.

Skim.

Stone.

Stim.

Rock.

Rocks in my pockets.

Rocks in my hands.

Rocks in my body
where the fear once lived.

And when they ask me
what I am carrying,

I say:

nothing.

Nothing but rocks.

Nothing but rocks.

Nothing but rocks.