Skipping Stones<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I remember the sway of her forearm gentle
\nas she stepped small by my side up the hill
\nto the dam at the end of the steep boulevard.<\/p>\n
The man-made lake. Summers then were loose,
\nsunny, long as the warm sidewalk uphill
\nfrom her yellow house. We didn\u2019t know the dam<\/p>\n
would burst when the fingers of the old fault
\nworked loose the bound water onto
\nthe evacuated neighborhood. We were<\/p>\n
thirteen. We didn\u2019t know she would be thrown
\nfrom a horse in Denver, restrained in the brilliant room
\nwhile they set the bone, scrubbed the wounds.<\/p>\n
We knew the words to Unchained Melody <\/em> of her father\u2019s death. I didn\u2019t know She showed a girl\u2019s disinterest, wandered, mute to fit the stone in the knuckle, bend close <\/p>\n “Skipping Stones” is reprinted from Sanskrit. \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Gerry McFarland<\/a> graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from Rainier Writer\u2019s Workshop at Pacific Lutheran University. He is a co-editor at Floating Bridge Press. His work has appeared in Zyzzyva<\/em>, Crab Creek Review<\/em>, Pontoon 8, Sanskrit<\/em>, Crucible, Berkeley Poetry Review<\/em>, Bayou<\/em> and many others. He was awarded the 2005 Sam Ragan Prize and was a finalist in the 2003 WinningWriters.comWar Poetry Contest.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Skipping Stones I remember the sway of her forearm gentle as she stepped small by my side up the hill to the dam at the end of the steep boulevard. The man-made lake. Summers then were loose, sunny, long … Continue reading
\nand all the names of the Beach Boys. We were the small
\nflesh of the world. We didn\u2019t know the imminence<\/p>\n
\nwhat it meant when my forearm brushed against hers.
\nThe stone has to look like this, I told her.<\/p>\n
\ndown the shore, touching the hair she had spent an hour
\nsetting while I demonstrated how<\/p>\n
\nto the water, swing the arm parallel
\nthe earth. I threw my heart out the end of my fingers.<\/p>\n