The dr. says my stones are new and spreading
fast, scattering wide as pebbles driven from a boulder
smashed to smithereens.
Cancer cells, she says, a terrible miracle of life
unstoppable, consuming other life to feed its own.
As all life lives from other lives. A certain comfort lies
in knowing this is no tragic accident, no judgment from
a vengeful god, just life getting on with the business
of dying. A comfort certainly not
for me for my stones for my bones for there is no
living here, no marrow rich in blood to suckle, for my bones
turned to stone eight dogs’ lives ago
when the price of suddenly seeming unlikely to keep
a secret was my hound dog’s life his body
still warm swinging from our favorite climbing tree
on the path up the hill from school.
She’s sure of cancer but tests can lie.
These stones, the final breaking apart of bones