The Tale of the Grief Stopper

A stone created by this river is called the pausilypos. Anyone grieving

who finds this stone is immediately relieved of the pain which holds him.

—Pseudo-Plutarch

On the day another boy

was shot, I took a stone

from this river. On the day

I heard his name, I lifted it.

I held it. It glittered

in the summer sun.

Aspens fluttered.

Cicadas thrummed.

I caressed its small, soft

skull. The boy was six-

years-old. He was

at a garlic festival

when he was shot.

Greeks placed bulbs

of garlic on cairns

at cross-roads—a gift

for Hecate—as protection

from demons.

It was the son of Poseidon

who threw himself

into this river when

his own son marched

against his neighbors

and was killed. He was

held down by water,

by the water’s hands

which are not hands

the way water is not grief.

His grief turned the river.

Now all we have are stones.

They are hard and small

like something in my shoe.

Like someone is walking

on my soul. He was six-

years-old. The river

is dry now.

The water is gone.

Aspens quake

in the bright air.

Cicadas crackle.

All that’s left

are stones.