May 11, 2020

Home from Stonehenge by David Henson

She grows cold 
and mute as a boulder. 
When he tries to kiss her, 
her tongue shoves pebbles into his mouth. 

When he tries to rub pink
back into granite cheeks, 
she pulls away sighing 
sand into his face. 

One night in bed, he chips a tooth 
on her breast, skins his knuckles 
between her thighs. 

By morning she’s solid stone. 

He chisels his brain 
worrying what to do, 
then slaves her into the garden

and returns to her each dawn, 
looking for a sign. 

*This piece originally appeared (print only) in Viterboro College’s Touchstone magazine (defunct) in 1992. 

David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Peoria, Illinois. His work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net and has appeared in numerous print and online journals including Spelk, Pithead Chapel, and Moonpark Review. His website is His Twitter is @annalou8.

No comments:

Post a Comment