When I was a kid, grown folks always told the same stories. I’d get impatient sometimes in the middle of the story and try to rush the telling along. I know that story, I’d think. Tell another one. But nothing I said could change the arc of their storytelling.
Now I’m the age of those grown folks. I find myself telling stories, the same stories over and over.
I understand now.
I understand that in the telling and retelling lies magick – bodies rebuilt, home restored. And time unraveled becomes fresh cloth, whole and seamless.
I tell the story of you and me
again. Tell about how I said yes
when I meant to say no. How
my tongue balled into a knot
inside my mouth, ready
for a fight. I admit I threw you
away three times. And you
you refused to go, knew I was
not the mistress of my own
tongue. Fear had me hostage
but you were more than willing
to pay the ransom. Patient man,
you. This lifetime ago just a taste
of what gold there is to come.
This our story a fresh miracle
on the air every time it’s told.
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I really liked Brenda’s poem and want her to continue writing great poems.