I sift through stones in a wooden box alongside

my sister. It’s sticky August, vacation.

The “Indian Store” smells like incense and leather,

and moccasins line the back wall behind women

in long skirts with earrings made of turquoise.

I am two steps into the store before Ally points to where

they sell tumbled crystals for three dollars a bag.

We kneel near the entrance, carpet making a pattern on my skin.

Stones are smooth and cold against my hand as I shove down,

clinking together as I part them and rushing out like the tide.

We fill translucent bags with rocks, pushing broken ones to the side,

our hands bumping as we search for the the most radiant rose quartz.

I snatch one quick and she laughs, startled. I keep it for myself.

Ally hands a rock to me that looks like a lemon wedge.

I press it to my chest and resist the desire to bite it, to see if it is sour.

That night, we lay on the patio and hold up lapis lazuli,

compare it to the river of Milky Way never seen from home.