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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 10, Number 3, September 2016

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Bill Gottlieb
Cobb, California, USA


My Rock

You are my rock, she said to me, her eyes like emeralds, dark in their green, and as bright, and wet with the wonder of sure love; she knew me, she loved me, my stone-loving jeweler, my wife, dying day after day of cancer.

She needed me strong and constant, like a diamond comforting coal, polishing her pain with my shine until there was lightening, the load less, her best sparkling in the determined dark.

And so I was her weight and steady way, as she thinned to eighty pounds and couldn't walk. She had worked to adorn my intending hands—in white gold and moonstone, in diamonds and yellow gold; in rings, rings made from her molten touch, her creed and fire of generous care. And those hands of help were eager to meet her needs, be able for months of morning till night. My surround of soothing was firm and smooth as a band, like a setting for her heart.

The sudden splash of a lustrous stone. Rings on the pond, widening sunlight. The single serenade of a mate—and what's that he's singing?

you were my gem
you were
you were

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