The White Stone Grinder My Mother Gave Me

Modeled on “The Black Lace Fan My Mother Gave me” by Eavan Boland


It was the first gift he ever gave her,

handed down generation after generation

from pre-revolutionary Cuba. It was intimidating.

Tearless nights dripped from the skull-etched pestle.


They remained in Trinidad for her graduation.

They went to her first conference. She came without pen or paper.

He brought extras. Post-graduation remorse.

They brought out a stone grinder. She looked at her watch.


A Caduceus intricately engraved into the pearly-white fronts,

two small glistening stones peering over,

from the eye sockets of the pestle.

Her smile grew, as did his contempt.


Her dwindling enjoyment of 24 hour shifts,

Soiled by a single rock.

A seed had grown out of stone.

The impossible accomplished once again,

By the White Stone Grinder.


This poem is about: 
My family
My country


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