by Sarah Stockton

An old woman gave me a geode to cure anxiety
but no instructions on how to break it open
and let the magic bleed out.

I remember the joy I felt at first,
clenching the rough dragon’s egg
which would set me free, until I tried

to smash its secrets apart—my fingers
bled all over the dense crystal prison
concealing amethyst, dolomite, quartz.

Hacksaws, hammers were no use; my teeth
broke tasting stone then the rock lodged
in my throat after shredding my tongue

until that same old woman slapped me so hard
I began heaving up bile, blood, and great globs of anxiety—
eventually, I spit the god-damned geode out.

You’re welcome, she said.

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Sarah Stockton completed her MA/Edu at San Francisco State University, freelanced as a writer/editor, trained as a spiritual director, authored two books, and taught at the University of San Francisco. Adjusting to the realities of a decades-long chronic illness, Sarah now lives with her husband in the Pacific Northwest and writes poems. Sarah's poems have appeared in Glass Poetry, The Shallow Ends, Rise Up Review and Crab Creek Review, among others. Poems forthcoming in Luna Luna Magazine and Gone Lawn. www.sarahstockton.com