if there is a stone to be 
eaten i know it
& i think about the dinosaurs
who ate stones to digest the leafy plants
they swallowed
leaves like feathers of a bird 
fossilized in rib cage
my therapist asks me what i think i am 
outside of all the things i do
& i want to say nothing
by which i mean 
i believe i am nothing
outside of what i write
what comes pouring out of me 
a stomach full of stones 
a green bird
aching with fossil
but instead i tell her
that i like to think 
i am kind & that 
i read beautiful 
people & that i write poetry 
enough to make up for the rest
(insert thought about 
the purpose a therapist 
can serve in a poem)
(insert a thought about 
running out of money to see 
that therapist who is now
just a line in your poem)
(insert a cup of strawberries
measured perfectly)
(insert a boy who lays on 
his stomach by the creek, peels 
a layer of moss off a stone before
placing it in his mouth)
(inert a boy not swallowing)
there are good things
that come from heaviness
the way the whole earth might
laugh under the feet of a dinosaur 
the way the earth might
laugh when i lay down 
& ask again 
if i am real
i do not know how many
stones there are to eat
or how i will perfectly fit them
in a measuring cup
but i will find a way 
& i do not think i will ever
be a person cured 
of all my (insert a list 
of sadness here)
but i am placing
a rock in my mouth & 
not swallowing