Our DNA is a map made of stories.
A genealogy of stories.
A storytelling festival, featuring
ancestors and those still in the womb,
and those looking at us through eyes
When we tell stories we tap
her to speak. We take the hand
of a child, let our fingers intertwine.
When we tell stories we time travel
in a temporal wave that crashes
and crashes on the shores of our flesh.
Damn, we are fine
grains of sand, swirling kelp,
all the luminescent plankton that ever swam!
When we tells stories, skeletons dance
in dark museums, clappersticks crack
like lighting deep in unmarked graves.
Abalone beads shine like oceans. And I am
an abalone bead, drilled true, strung
on twisted plant fibers,
one of many glowing jewels
on a strand that spirals round
and around. When we tell stories
I know where my beginnings spill,
drunken coyotes keening over broken moons.
Tell me a story. Tell me how it happens.
Let me tell you a tale your bones
can't forget. We are beloved bodies
of work dancing a spiraled flightpath
made of words, ink, tongues. We speak
a language that does not contain
the word for dead, or end,