"Nameless Stone" by Savannah Cooper

Nameless Stone

I shouldn’t have to tell you how it feels to know
you’re gone, but you were never one for tears
or explanations. I keep your picture close by
so I don’t forget your face, although all the rest

is faded now. A decade will do that to things, drain
the color, soften the blow. But still I think of calling
you sometimes, of finding my way back to your doorstep.
I’ll bring you tea, print off every page online that bears

my name, as though you haven’t clicked each link
yourself. And when I finally finish this goddamn book,
I’ll press it into your hands and watch you find a place
on the shelf. You gave me more than I had any reason

to expect, turned from a figure down the hall to something
buried in my heart, a nameless stone. You trusted me
to hang the stars, and in the end I wish I could’ve held
your hand. A child’s place at her parent’s bedside.

But I can’t blame you for walking away before making it
that far. Sometimes I think of blood on the wall
and your dog standing alone, an envelope under the mat.
But mostly I think of your scribbled handwriting, the weight

of your hand on my shoulder, the way you gave me all
the trust I didn’t know I wanted, how you lifted me up
with every shaky step I took. That last long day in August,
the quiet between us and the light from the courtyard,

you told me all the things I’d be. You didn’t mean to take
up so much of my heart, and I didn’t realize until the space
emptied, the first fissure. And I know I’ll live a life full
of cracks and aches, but you were first, and I can’t even

explain how you set my fractures and just saw me, all I was
and all I might one day be. I want to tell you, I want to prove
you right, but I think somehow you know, and I could
whisper a little hallelujah, wave to you next time we pass

in dreams. My favorite ghost, my guardian angel flapping
its goofy wings. I’d buy you a coffee, and we could take
a moment just to talk, your hand on the head of whatever dog
you’ve found and named.

Savannah Cooper

Savannah Cooper (she/her) is a leftist bisexual agnostic, and a slow-ripening disappointment to her Baptist parents. You can almost always find her at home, reading or cuddling with her dogs and cat. A Pushcart Prize-nominated poet, her work has previously appeared in Parentheses Journal, indicia, and Bear Review, among numerous other publications.

Headshot: Josh Admire

Photo Credit: Staff