Something Gray Happens

As we walk beside a granite wall

discussing friends whose cancers

have recurred, enemies whose wealth

has mounted, and the tsunami

that has disabled half of Japan,

something gray happens: a misstep 

takes me inside the wall. I panic, 

but you see nothing wrong. The day,

filtered through stone, looks final.

The density stifles my breathing

and igneous pressure retards

my already compromised heart.

You believe I still walk beside you

with rapt and human expression.

Yet I’m inside the wall, not quite

fossilized but trapped like a fly

in amber. Only my shadow 

walks beside you, a muddle

of shame. Don’t touch or confide

in it. Please call a mason 

to demolish the wall and free me.

Too late. Your footsteps recede,

and the tall voice of my shadow

drifts on the brittle March wind.

I try to back out of this trap,

but whatever opening occurred

to admit me now has closed,

leaving no trace of a seam.

Your fading laughter frightens me.

I fear if you accustom yourself

to only the shadow part of me

you’ll forget I used to occupy

three dimensions, and won’t recall 

how much of me the stone absorbed,

how much or how little you cared.

William Doreski