Stories

wish the stories stacked
on top of one another,
clobbering one another, clawing
to the top beside all the others
for an exit, a clearance by which
they could be expelled,
set apart from the other.

wish the stories stood unearthed,
surfacing from supreme dirt
or any old experience
twined together by faces rare,
betwixt voiceless voices,
and gowned in glimmering iris’s
for no one’s sake but my own.

wish the stories delicately
grew in this day with my tender
tending to, but without toil
or the threat of threads unwinding,
without the mind dying
to produce these succulent stories
that succeed our earthly bodies.

 

 

—N.A.

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