Saturday, April 2, 2016

Story ghazal

I am steadied, kept true on my family's wobbling stories.
Daylight turned black and we fell asleep gobbling stories.

I am a tiny witness, drinking in old grooved songs
Bedded in echoes of yellowing, knobbling stories.

What keeps the lines from running right off the pages?
We are who we are: Hymn singing. Squabbling. Stories.

Grandma forgot. Grandpa remembered. Mama goes on
Whispering ragged ends of hobbling stories.

What holds us frozen, loud, rebellious? The words you bite off and I snatch.

We sort them in apronfuls, juggle them, cobbling stories.

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