CATALYST
As if disintegrating the stone of our being to sand we pour ourselves empty to be remade beyond the merciless sins we rise above. The beauty of your breast cleaved away, my lungs stomping their sun-fire dance always, yet we reshape ourselves as balm for each other till we can bear our stories’ terrible weight and are transformed as if to sound— water on granite, wind through pine, an osprey’s haunting cry.
Thank you to the editors of The Tishman Review for first publishing this poem.
Elizabeth Oakley Weaver 