Story

Tell me a story,you say, once we settle,

ready for words. Tell me a story

about freedom. We shift apart,

embrace, shift again. And I wonder,

aren’t stories what we tell ourselves

when we are not free? It may be

that thirst and the quest to relieve

that thirst are what passes for being free.

It may be that only love is free,

arising as it wills. Do we know

what sorts and separates and seals us

apart, self-enclosed? If I could, I’d be

a river—a river carries sky on its skin.

Tell a story, you whisper. And Who am I,

I muse, meaning who am I inside the story?

In stories as in dreams one can play

all the parts. Husk off your name,

Beloved—that’s when the singing starts.

And now it starts. I begin to see a river

coursing through a meadow. I see

olive trees and the dark mouth of the cave.

I’m listening to the river and to the

singing head afloat in the river’s current.

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