BONES née STONES

I suppose I could write a poem
all about this boy i feel some kind of affinity toward.
But
I'd rather write a myth.

The one where Deucalion makes men out of stones.

The one where constellations are ladders between the upper and lower worlds.

The one where _ _ _ _ and I are standing in the Museum of Natural History, peering into an antique cupboard with blacklit geodes and unfamiliar, glowing rocks.

The one where I say Look, pointing to the back of the cupboard where we are reflected thanks to accidents of glass and light, and then there's us.

To which he winces and backs away, saying,
Never look at your reflection when someone tells you to.
That's the fifth rule of going into hiding.

(This boy who won't even allow his picture to be taken,
because he thinks it will make it impossible for him to disappear.)

I would write a poem
but
none of it really matters,
not with the weight
of shared silence
and fossils neatly shelved.
Stone creeping back into bone
despite Pyrrha's best efforts:
the impossible return---
the question of ever being a child again.

We're just two people sharing the arcane. Now what?