I finally found it
in the back of a drawer
with paper clips and pencils,
under a box of erasers
I'd bought long ago
but never used.
Its polished surface
shone black against my palm.
My hand closed around it,
felt it's cool smooth artificiality.
I wondered at the
absurdity of it all.
No primitive sacred stone
was ever polished
by a rockhound,
sealed in a mesh bag
with fifty others,
and sold to church ladies.
Yet it sits on the counter
where it reminds me
to touch it
a hundred times a day
and ask the impossible
of my God, not a stone.
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