healing stones

   

Danielle Pelletier

After I was born, my mother courted bridges,

wrapped her legs around their guardrails.


The witches came, and told her crystals

were good for replacing what children took.


I found an egg of rose-kissed quartz

among the naked branches of her favorite tree.


Like dragon’s skin, it burned cold

into my twisted bark-less fingers. I waited


to hear the hum of lace wings, the clicks

of a spine unfurling, of golden talons


scratching from inside the blushing crystal.

The cicadas cried, their skeletons abandoned


to waste away in the highest boughs.

My mother scattered broken seashells at the roots;


they glowed in the growing darkness,

pale white and jagged, like crushed teeth.