TELLING TALES


                  

It’s narrative we live in,

early; late.  Here only

do we ride a voice that canters forth

to listeners bound to hear.


Here finally do we slip beyond

obsessive selves toward rites

that vest our tales

with freighted memory.


Those big-browed hairy faces

by a cave-fire are the gist of us --

rapt at hand-signed stories

of the hunt,the kill, the spirit marks

that signal feasts at close. 

 

Gaunt figures in gray treatment chairs

slumped bonelessly or hypnotized

by globules in their chemo drips

grow radiant at the chance to share

their disregarded histories. 

 

Through tales each soul

is recognized; endorsed

to feel; can compass buried griefs.

 

Perhaps rise to community.

Perhaps in some sense heal





Version first published in What Rough Beast, Jan.11, 2020