Skipping Rocks
by Dan Murphy

Take obsidian
for example.
Black as shoe leather, glossy
as the evening star, cuts throat
at the snap of a finger;
we skipped rocks
behind the woolen mill.

When the lost pond beckoned
mirror flat and light sharp
as a straight-edge.
A mindless rock slung
between thumb
and middle finger.
Forefinger pursing
its razor edge; with the delicacy
of an oyster mantle
pursing its shell.

Counting skips arching
left then right like bullets
shooting water. Splashes
becoming bird chirps,
then the final paddle slipping
side to side, tipping
like a Titanic washing
into the cold blue Atlantic.

One Jersey afternoon
with the sun alive
on the pond
like a slippery hot wire
a rock creased my forehead.
Sliced the flesh arc clean
and bleeding like royal curtains
falling behind a throne; obsidian
volcanic glass, Feisic lava
meant for lances
not skipping stones.

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