Lying still on the middle shelf
of the bookcase, palm-sized, shadow gray,
flattened egg, smooth, cold.

Pick it up. Feel its chill.
Look how your fingers wrap around it
like the embrace of a lost love,

how it hides deep in your grasp.
It was always meant for slinging against
the beating temple of Goliath,

always for battering the harlot
who broke the old laws. See how perfectly
it fits your faithless hand?