by Lisa Wiley

I keep rolling you over in my mind

like a smooth rock tumbled

for centuries along the creek bed.

Picking it up, I admire the polished curves,

wonder where we begin and end.

This pebble, only a few ounces,

weighs heavy on the heart.

Shall I pocket it like an albatross waiting

for that one halcyon summer day you visit?

Or toss it back into fresh water,

see you skip across to the other side?

Sometimes, there aren’t enough fucking rocks.

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Lisa Wiley teaches English at SUNY Erie Community College in Buffalo, NY. She is the author of three chapbooks: Big Apple Rain (The Writer’s Den, 2018), My Daughter Wears Her Evil Eye to School (The Writer’s Den, 2015), and Chamber Music (Finishing Line Press, 2013). Her poetry has appeared in Earth’s Daughters, The Healing Muse, Medical Journal of Australia, Mom Egg Review and Third Wednesday, among others. She has read her work throughout New York state.