Cephalopod

By Wesley Houp

Why are we so smug?
Which symbol is it
that puts us in our custerdomes?
Digging up the old

stone path,
I find relief for a moment.
So many odd shaped
flakes of limestone
carried ridiculous
distances.
One has the complete
hard body of
a young cephalopod.
Another the relief
of brachiopods,
raphinesquina.
This big flat one

is Chloe’s rock.
The perfect relief
of a juvenile cephalopod
captured mid-jettison.
She was so excited
the day she found it.
Her little brother

lagging behind in the rain.
A stone that brightened
the mood,
that spoke to a little girl
like only a sea creature could.
I carried it in my pack
with Chloe walking behind,
her hand glued
to my back
to insure safe delivery.
Ten years have

wandered by,
a procession of
ghost animals.
My little girl
is two months shy
of adulthood.

Such a clumsy term.

She attends parties.
Stays out late.
Goes to concerts.
Has a job.
Grassroots

have wound around
the stone
that was so precious
for a time.
When I look at
the ribbed relief
of a cephalopod,
I’m filled with joy

and despair.
Each layer is
a million years.
And it’s she loves me
she loves me not.