Brad Richard

July 25, 2016 Richard Brad



My windowsill’s lined with fossils, whorled limestone

remnants of ancient seas, lost bodies now limestone.


I’ve planted turmeric and borage, mustard and margiolds.

Where do I pray my name takes root in time? Stone.


The beauty of rocks is all weight and shape,

a poetry of heft. Stevens! I also cry, “Stanza my stone.”


I spend all morning arranging words, and all they leave

is a memory fainter than water on hot, dry stone.


My mother calls. Her friend next door was evicted,

had to move to a trailer, to another county—Limestone.


In my dream, I’m trying to call home

but every number yields another dial tone.


Ammonite, echinoid, gastropod—you had no name

alive in your sea, only now when you are limestone.

Brad Richard’s poetry collection Motion Studies won the 2010 Washington Prize from The Word Works, was published in 2011. He is also the author of the collection Habitations (Portals Press, New Orleans, 2000) and the limited edition chapbook The Men in the Dark (Lowlands Press, Stuttgart, Germany, 2004)