Purple Shearling

Your gall stones
don’t belong in see-
through bottles for the rest

of the world to admire, two
rocks stewing in their
stock, waiting

for eight-year olds
to discover your insides
under glass in the room
where our legs stick to your plastic-
covered chairs, our mouths
mash the bubble-gum

in cheeks pink from the glare
of shadeless windows–you want
light–the preacher might

visit at three and talk of things
we yawn about, he’ll sit in the high-
backed chair and stare

at the stones, and nod methodically
as our eyes fall, how heavy
the afternoon settles, Mimi,

sucking our breath
silent, as dust descends
circling like crows.

–Stacy F. Wray
1993