The Stone robber

Time had me stuck

Back in that town I no longer want to live in

In small conversations we had in broken Spanish

Telling me your secrets as if I was strong enough to hold them

Like rocks in my pockets

When I was young my dad gave me similar stones

I held them with fascination

Their smooth surface cool to the touch, cold as his heart

Ochre fire anger burning inside

Serrated edges pitch black flint and obsidian

My soft fingers refusing to let go

I didn’t realize their heaviness until now

Now that my knees can no longer lift off the ground

I sat hopeless watching others pass me by in their race

One day I met a robber on the road

He was wearing a mask I didn’t recognize his face

I asked him his name and he laughed

He stole my stones at gunpoint

I yelled after him, cursed the day he was born

But when I could feel the familiar sway of movement, of momentum

I thanked him for teaching me his dance

That only thieves know