Sisyphus

by Faye George

Cool freshets spilling from stone to stone,

pools deep as thought,

the immense beyond of ocean,

a warm couch of sand . . .

All that the bright world holds,

holds back.

This stone is my wife.

My hands have given it a waist.

It has given me this calloused flesh,

this chalky horn upon my palm,

mark of a working man.

I work alone,

shaping my curse,

honing it: a tool for raising stone.

Fitting it for what lets me live this death

with purpose; there was a time

I would not have thought it could be so.

I loved the red suns, the blue mists of Earth,

the long green reach of trees,

her creatures feral and quick,

the tribes in their camps.

I wanted light and life and Earth.

That passion earned me this,

this gift, a stone.

A stone, yes, but I have made it mine.

They thought that it would crush me.

For a time I thought it had: mind and body

wed to rock, pushing that weight to the summit

day after day, eating the dust of the path

till the spit of your mouth is clay in your throat.

And never an end to it — the mindless task.

With every lumbering turn, the stone grew.

Fed on desire and regret, the stone grew.

In that night's sky with no light above

the cold moon of my grasp,

I set my will, embracing all of this —

I set my will and said, Now do your worst!

And knew I'd gone beyond myself:

It was enough.