M. Stone
Catalyst
I suppose you have a right to ask
why I never gave your mother my name.
I worked as a teamster for her father,
my horses and mules hauling logs
from these hills. I have a way of breaking
wild things. I broke your mother with a habit
of shunning and then returning,
a wormy apple in my palm.
One day when you're a young man
you will understand: we'll meet in town
and I'll extend a hand, see how well the bit
fits your mouth.
Reaction
Your fist is a jellied plum, but you’ve proven
you don’t have rabbit blood. You take a punch
better than most men; you may stagger,
but you do not fall. Now they all think twice
before calling you bastard, and a change passes over us
quick as fingers grazing a thigh, final as chestnut blight.
Confusing kind with weak, you shun the shelter
of my umbrella ribs, my tattered canopy.
About M. Stone
M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher, and stargazer living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her poems have appeared in San Pedro River Review, Star 82 Review, UCity Review, and numerous other journals. She is the author of the micro-chapbook Evolving God (Ghost City Press) and the chapbook Lore. Find her on Twitter @writermstone and at writermstone.wordpress.com.