Alison Stone

by Alison Stone

Blood test. Doctor on the phone. The cold.
Emily’s zero at the bone. That cold.

The child forced to choose&emdash;which parent to
become, which to betray. Two paths. One cold.

My heart&emdash;eight ounces of muscle holding
maiden eagerness. A mother’s grief. Crone cold.

Community. Connection. Love. Still,
at the end, private pain. Our own cold.

Wolves’ howl for the forest, logged to stumps.
Their ribs obvious as money, eyes monotone cold.

What do these have in common&emdash;politics,
angel wings, lovers’ lies, ice cream cone?

Of course the dead visit. We left them
boxed up and buried, alone in the cold.

My aim is true, you croon with your back turned.
Your voice smoky, baritone, cold.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 4.

Alison StoneAlison Stone has published five poetry collections, including Ordinary Magic, (NYQ Books, 2016), Dangerous Enough (Presa Press 2014), and They Sing at Midnight, which won the 2003 Many Mountains Moving Poetry Award. She has been awarded Poetry’s Frederick Bock Prize and New York Quarterly’s Madeline Sadin award. A licensed psychotherapist, she has private practices in NYC and Nyack.

See all items about Alison Stone

Visit Alison Stone’s contributors page.

Leave a Reply