Iconoclast

I have a name I don’t know.
It’s carved on a stone I’ve never seen.
A stone that’s out there somewhere

perhaps at the edge of a lake
perhaps within reach of a child
who will stuff it in his pocket,

rest it on his nightstand.
Or it will be such a smooth stone
that he’ll skip it across the water

my name ringing out, echoed back
by the trees, carried off
in the throat of a sparrow

that now sits
on my windowsill singing—
the swelling of whose song

suggests the person I’m becoming
won’t easily fit
on the side of a stone.

Published by asaur