On Stone Mountain
she lay gray and still on the crimson soil of Georgia
—W. E. B. Du Bois
—W. E. B. Du Bois
Waves of granite pavement outcrops, river of shadows, ghostly in the clearing between hickory and oak, the path blazed with autumn. Underfoot, the mineral facts of these rocks: quartz, feldspar, and mica. A century ago, they planted a burning cross on the summit before Birth of a Nation. This year Mercedes-Benz USA stunt drove its new luxury SUV to the top. In recreation we trust! As we made our way up, separately and singly, black, white, brown, yellow bodies, pilgrims all, exercisers in neon scaling the scarred face of the mountain, my mother light and limber leading the charge, my father with his bad knees falling behind, and me shuttling in between, deserters from some routed army, talking little, fleeing another lost cause, I heard Beyoncé and birdsong call and respond…. That was October. Then November happened. Late December, we return to Stone Mountain (one thing we can agree on). Rain from last night’s storm clarifies the vernal pools. We find our names again in strangers’ initials etched like xenolith graffiti, recognize the stunted, scraggly red cedar under whose shade we now rest, weathered as these gray foldings and faultings, in silence, our bedrock.