Mary Szybist

To the Dove Within the Stone

Sleeper, still untouched by
Gravity, invisible
For the stone, I cannot

Hear you shift in its dark
Center. How many
Centuries since the first girl

Roused you — pressing stone against
Stone — hardly meaning to
Make an inside. The stone had no

Emptiness. And her body, no
Emptiness until she felt you
Move under her palm, her steady

Pulse. Already flesh was something to
Stir you, something to make you
True. Stone-dove, untouched

Even by thistles, moths, my hand
Is open. Listen now and
Flutter forward.