I am a storyteller. Let me spin you marvellous yarns. And in return, let me hear your stories. Of that day when you saw a star shedding petals. Or the day your cat swished his tail and told you he was the prince of fairy land.  I will tell you why the raindrops sing on my windowpane. And of that beautiful boy who changed into a bird and flew away to the waters bluer than grief in the desert of ashen dreams.

And let a new story begin. Yours and mine.

This poem is so excruciating and haunting. I would love to write stories centred around this.





Doris Salcedo, Shibboleth, 2007. (Tate)


The Sound

Marc says the suffering that we don't see
still makes a sort of sound — a subtle, soft
noise, nothing like the cries of screams that we
might think of — more the slight scrape of a hat doffed
by a quiet man, ignored as he stands back
to let a lovely woman pass, her dress
just brushing his coat. Or else it's like a crack
in an old foundation, slowly widening, the stress
and slippage going on unnoticed by
the family upstairs, the daughter leaving
for a date, her mother's resigned sigh
when she sees her. It's like the heaving
of a stone into a lake, before it drops.
It's shy, it's barely there. It never stops.

 

© Kim Addonizio