Soapstone
A poem
The industrial designer shows me a picture of her creation
It is a marvelous material that does not break like granite can —
under heavy items dropped,
and the molten steel grey looks both rustic and sleek
I like that flecks of gold run like glitter light
through the river of it
At the yard each slab is huge and streaked and roughly cut:
A dish rack full of elementary blackboards
waiting to be chosen
The counters are only one task—
tiles, lighting, floors, and paint must complement them,
and how to choose?
I do not know enough about construction
but I am imagining a home for myself
as possible
for the first time
A small place in the country but not too far away,
Trees on a lot without nearby neighbors,
not because I want to hide
but to listen in the wooded silences,
learn the rhythm of the trees on their own,
the scented cadence of each hour
The dog will gallop back and forth around the land in haphazard diagonals,
and I will scatter wildflower seeds in the off-season, and wait;
I will walk the property in boots and long pants,
how I was taught as a girl
to evade snakes and grass burrs and cow patties and fire ants
in brown wild grasses where the cows had not eaten
Will I feel closer to those I have lost there,
will they come with the stillness,
help me remember?
Grand told the ghost story of old Charlie and the bloody walls he left
in the clapboard house on the San Antonio River
generations failed to scrape clean
No one will throw breakable things
or raise a voice; there will be flowers
in every room
like light
Orderly masses of books will blend into unobtrusive walls
I will resuscitate the stories I was told on the land we once had
and without them with me,
I will again face the west at dusk
in the dirt and the half-light
making each tree and shrub and fencepost dark
then unseen slowly
in hopes of the childish twinkle
of summer fireflies we used to chase
