Moving Rocks

       Amy Neill Bebergal
Augusts, Id pussyfoot the breakers where
the North Atlantic tumbled post-glacial rubble,
clinking and banging my ankles. Wet, emerging
in the gathering froth, their colors and striations
flash and I delight as if invited to choose from
the riches strewn at my feet. I fill my plastic bucket.
Later, Im moving rocks collected over years
of shore vacations, wrapping and nestling them
into boxes between ceramic plates and drinking glasses.
It seems wrong; theyre heavy, take up space, and I harbor
disappointment in their matte detachment. Still I take them,
one by one from my mantel where they were lined impassive,
grey like bones. Meanwhile there are little rumbles
of the plates below us sliding into each other as we coast
a fickle crust, the mortal strata, over a deep lava river.
We erect skyscrapers like anchors.


Amy Neill Bebergal,
is a poet living in Cambridge Massachusetts with her husband and son. Her poems have appeared in RiverLit, Killing the Buddha, Blast Furnace, Friends Journal, Boston Poetry Magazine, Ghost Town Literary Journal, among others. She has an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College.

     riverbabble 30 table of contents    |   Write to the Author   |  Go to the Archives