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.
