Blood stone: A Memoir

Blood Stone: A Memoir

I am a Bloodstone. Shaken and weathered.
I am on the balcony in Mishima’s Japan
as the crimson sun sets on the seppuku ceremony
in the empty courtyard--

I carry with me the maroon anarchist blood
mixed at Chicago’s Haymarket Square
and Boston’s forgotten earth
where Sacco and Vanzetti were electrocuted.

I am the fire engine blood behind
the frenzied fiery frightened eyes of the childhood mob
in Montreal as they chant: Tue-la! Tue-la! Tue-la!
behind the schoolyard dumpsters.

I am perfectly pitched through space and caught in little Pierre Laport’s
catchers glove when someone yells: ‘Teacher! Allons-Vite!’
and everyone scrambles to get on the yellow bus.

On the bus, Pierre pushes me inside his pant pocket,
along-side spare change.
I nestle between silver-haired queens and well-fingered nickel beavers.

I had 15 minutes of fame on national television
when I lay on the Pakistani soil at Daniel Pearl’s scarlet feet
as he is shot, beheaded, hacked divided into 10 pieces as we sit unknowing in our fecund living rooms.

I have traveled ; been put-down, tossed, pick-pocketed, hanged,
shot, rolled along with some heads of state.
And how memorable
that day in the elementary school classroom
with the President of the Unites States.

George W. brings me in for show and tell.
He is reading about a pet goat that eats everything in its path.
His chief of staff, Andrew Card, whispers in his ear.
I think this is my moment.
Playing the lead on the international stage.
All the wide-awed children will be clamoring
over each other to catch a glimpse of my hued brilliance.
Damn him.

George slips out of the classroom,
abandoning the children
and me,
the Bloodstone
supine on the table.