We gather memories, hold dear our stories
like a bouquet at our heart kept near, our stories.
We are skeletons draped in cloaks of flesh, in lines
of palm and lines of poem, our bodies wear our stories.
When we turn away from what we yearn the most,
when we deny desire, we come to fear our stories.
Silently they absorb our words, our intonations;
children echo us, make sincere our stories.
“That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” So as not
to lose Identity, as if to Velcro we adhere our stories.
Arundhati Roy says non-fiction is wrenched out by
her broken world. Achingly, we volunteer our stories.
Hoping to carve new territory, find new ground,
we write blindly into the night, pioneer our stories.
In time for my birthday, Tigerlily, will bloom in July,
curly petals unfolding to invite a new year, our stories.
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