The River Ran Dry

He that is without sin, 

tell me of the rock in your hand, 

of what sheened its surface 

to your swollen eye. 

Does it weigh heavy in your hand? 

What will its absence tell you? Relief 

may come before grief–or the other 

way round. But it is your eardrums 

that will make known 

the weight of it. The verses will not 

tell you: For David, with sling slack 

in his hand, heard a thunderous 

CRACK then a lamenting moan– 

his own mouth was agape. Which 

voice did he call his own? And 

when struck, blood poured from stone. 

True. You do not have a sling. 

Or a gun. Or a knife. But you have 

a rock. You picked it from the river 

bed when you were a child,

fascinated by the way it gleamed 

just under the running water’s 

surface. The current kept no count. 

Your fingers were warm then. 

And the pebble slick 

with green moss, reminded you 

of better things to come. 

They have not.

It has grown too heavy for you 

to bear now. Too hot for your ego 

to mistake for reverie. 

You do not have a sling.

But you have your target. And the river 

ran dry years ago. The moss has retreated 

and there stands your Goliath. You say 

you have no choice

but to sharpen stone with stone.