In my backyard—at night there is a mirror—
the American river
I walked to the outcropping
where they once tried to build a bridge

            Remember how I taught you to throw stones here?
            The angle of your elbow
            to skip the smooth rock… 1, 2, 3, 4
            The ripples of each skip’s epicenter

The sky is a fusion
between the living and the dead, as the sunset
was fifteen minutes ago

Coyotes howl like a heart skipping
stones among ghosts

I feel the years of a rock worn smooth
against my fingers delicately kissing the
flesh I used to trace over your body, watching
the shadow’s outline each ripple in the unmade bed

The stone falls from my waist
I don’t care to catch it
Clank echoes as the rock abides to the law

This new stone I grab isn’t smooth at all, the edges
remind my fingers of broken glass, of
after the end of a fairytale
and is swallowed by my palm

The rawness is a challenge to skip amidst the clamor
of trees in the delta breeze, my only audience

I submarine my hand beneath the elbow
chock my shoulder
Leaves rustle in anticipation

The sky dies after I cut
the tension, flinging the stone
into mirror
broken glass cascades
down the bathroom vanity
It falls into the tops of my feet

Where I can no longer see myself
I hear all the leaves fall in applause

– Daniel Callahan