Heel Stone, Gritted Truth

The dry, grey block in my palm,

rough as a riverbed, porous,

smelled faintly of soap and calm,

a stone to make me less sore.

Against the heel, a stubborn patch,

it rasped, a sound like sandpaper

on old wood, or a dry, insistent scratch.

A fine white dust rose, hung in the air.

My own skin, flaking, a fine fall

of small, dead cells, a quiet shred.

We have to grind away, or crawl,

to smooth the rough edges of what's said

and what's unsaid, the daily wear.

This small stone, rubbing, making new.

It hurts a little, this repair,

but sometimes, you just have to.