We listen to the Spiderwick Chronicles the entire ride home. The small boy in the back asking why the brownie is such a butthole, and why goblins eat cats, and why dwarfs built a giant metal tree. I love being read to. The magic as your head invents the story without help from your eyes. When I think of the poison in the ear of Hamlet’s father, I always imagine a story slithering into his brain.
The old Greek performers who’d regale their audiences with epic poems. The world outside your town is like this. There is a wind that brings blood rain. There was once a woman so beautiful she launched ships of war and pitted the gods against one another. Once there was a hero who journeyed into the Underworld for his love. But he lacked faith and lost her.
The world began with a flame held against wood in order to lessen the darkness. We huddled around fires and built stories. We bartered with them. Marked our landscape. My bones are ringed with stories. They are etched on my tongue. The way you were handed to me, an angry burrito, your eyes still glistening from the horrible crap they smeared on you. I held you and felt a tether between myself and the earth and you. Small though you were. “Can I feed him?” I asked. I couldn’t look away. I’ve never been able to look away. They had to repeat the answer to me several times. I was already busy telling you stories.
1 thought on “Traveler”
I cannot write poetry. You can. You are poetic. Please don’t stop.