What Happens in Boone…
We conquer uneven rocks slowly,
fingers groping the promise of smooth crevice,
toes raking to find proper support.
Suddenly, we are there, top of our world.
I measure slopes of distant hills,
calculating possibilities of new quarry to stalk.
You dig into your pack, produce your father’s chisel,
and search for an empty space amongst the litter of names
etched by a dozen generations of desperate lovers.
The music of your commitment,
metal to metal, pick to stone,
echoes from every direction,
and I must remove you from my thoughts
in order to hear my own dreams.
You say we will be discovered here someday;
future galactic explorers will visit a wasteland
once called Our Earth, and notice faint marks
in this ancient stone. They will decipher.
They will honor. They will name us immortal.
But, I fear you are wrong.
We, you and I, will not be discovered here.
Our vowels and consonants will not be caressed by future lips.
We will never be privileged to such glorious fame.
Your cracks will not fit the puzzle.
These words will not fit your plan,
as you have inexcusably
misspelled my name.
Shirley Alexander
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