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A Rock Has No Door
By Jan La Roche
I traveled inside a pebble.
Every particle knew my name
and felt me going forward in dark gray,
a blinded subway stalling through a tunnel,
bodies pushing against me.
There was no air.
I heard the sound of faint clapping--
like ten people at the back of the room.
Then fat wood crackling on moist clay
and finally, a chisel on my head
carving words I couldn’t read.
Only the ancients have also gone inside,
seen the fusion patterns linking shapes,
and touched the blood of volcanoes.
Their path was there for me to follow.
Leaving was painful. For years I walked beaches
looking for the rock I came out of.