by Ankh Spice
Breakers
Most rocks when broken apart
look the same on the inside.
Most people use a larger rock
to break the smaller ones open.
An older woman, about sixty,
brought with her a young man.
I asked, How old is the boy —
I was told twelve, he smiled.
The older woman’s grey hairs
shone like silver threads in sun.
The boy’s teeth were as white
as the veins in the grey rocks.
All day we broke them open,
our long hairs tangled in wind.
A rock takes years to form —
breaking it, two or three tries.
Wind blew the rays of the sun
into complex geometric shapes.
The boy held his left hand up
in an attempt to shade his eyes.
The blue of which struck me
as a clue to my own existence.
Stephen Jackson lives in the Pacific Northwest. When not reading or writing, you’ll find him communing with nature or engaging in conversation with a fellow human. Poems appear in The American Journal of Poetry, Hole in the Head Review, Impossible Archetype, The Inflectionist Review, and Stone of Madness Press. @fortyoddcrows.
Ankh Spice is a sea-obsessed, queer-identified poet from Aotearoa. His work has been widely published internationally, with several poems nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and one chosen as a winner of the Poetry Archive’s WorldView 2020 competition. You’ll find him and a lot of sea photography on Twitter @SeaGoatScreams or on Facebook @AnkhSpiceSeaGoatScreamsPoetry.