I toss worries
across the volume of brain water
in my makeup.
They do not skip
like carefree children at recess,
but sink and pile at the bottom
of the mind’s lake.
Some say, “Throw them away!”
Is that because it makes them
uncomfortable—the existence of
those worry pebbles?
Are they terrified
to look at the slate and limestone,
at the mottled surfaces,
at the rock pieces that have
chipped off from mountains?
Throw them where?
Across the liquid expanse?
Don’t they know that no arm,
Hercules’ or Superman’s excluding,
Could land it on the other side?
Pebbles huddle in my hand’s hollow,
sometimes pressed into my pockets,
until I examine them, running my fingers along their sides
tapping the palm-sized fronts,
questions pressed inside their solid cores.
I toss them from hand to hand,
an awkward, disjointed juggle,
uncertain what to do.
eventually, I chuck them in,
a fierce frustration furrowing my brow,
locked up fingers releasing—
they lob high,
skimming the concave of my skull.
Ricocheted SPLACK!
The sound resounds against
the walls of my head.
And there they pile at the
bottom of the brain sea,
unanswered
until I wade in
and let them shift
in bumpy waves
under my bare feet,
awaiting answers to be discovered.
