There’s a boulder in the living room.
It blocks the view of the tv, 
depending where you sit 
by which I mean, unless you sit 
on it or in front, which isn’t 
comfortable and renders 
the soft of the sofa 
impossible. 

Sometimes, when we sit 
on it, we can forget it’s 
there. We sit and laugh 
and lean into a fall or at least 
the sudden hardness 
of stone. 

With no room for a tree
at Christmas, we decorate
it, tinsel and lights,
then we sit and watch 
the soft glow of it, 
benign blushing 
of a miracle child. 

Like a standing 
stone, quietly, we question 
how it got there in the first 
place, too heavy, 
no doorway large enough, 
no holes in the ceiling 
and not organic.

No one can remember 
it growing, 
too established, 
like it’s got roots here
that might stretch 
to a fiery core, 
somewhere we might die 
if we follow them 
to the end.