Fog Made of Stone
“What if the fog were made of stone?”
my son asked from the back seat
the week before the world shut down.
Practiced, I bounced the question back
like a tennis ball against a wall.
He answered, “We couldn’t get through.”
As tires gripped its slippery blur,
the road unwound into the mist.
“What if the stone were made of fog?”
—the question never asked that day
but implicit ever since,
everything that seemed solid
now porous as a sponge,
and bodies made of emptiness:
black boxes on a flat screen,
a needle’s breadth between them.
And still, it’s “Can you hear me?”
“Am I getting through?”
I think of Anticleia’s shade
dissolving from Odysseus’s embrace.
We hug the air instead of flesh
to keep the flesh unharmed.
If only this catabasis
brought prophecy to light.
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