PREFACE:
This poem was a almost a prayer. I felt that I had lost some faith and asked the universe to help me find my story again. It did!
You have lost your story
So you put on a thread bare
Black coat for the snow, visit the houses
Of those who know you. You knock on
The first door, your friend answers
Dressed in a lab coat, you ask him,
“Have you seen my story.” He proceeds
To tell you his story of you. But it
Is not what you are looking for. You
Shake your head. He shakes his,
Shuts the door slower than the drying
Of a wet coat. You stand in front
Of the door, watch the band of light
slowly thin from its closing.
You go to the next door at the end of
And endless hallway. You knock
Your old lover answers. She’s 10
Feet tall and is hunched over; her
Shoulders against the ceiling. You ask
Her if she has seen your story, that you
Have seemed to have lost it and are
Wondering if you left it there when we
You once in love. She tells you the story
Of why she left you and other things she
Has written about herself to make it
Easier. As she tells you her story about
You, she gets smaller and smaller. It is
Not what you are looking for. She is so
Small now, a rat from the back room
Is staring at her. You pull the door shut.
You stand in front of the door of your
Father. It is a dark worn heavy door. It
Takes him a year to answer. You have
Grown a beard waiting. “Father, have you
Seen my story, I seem to have lost it some-
Where, maybe when I was a child, have you
seen it, father?” He pulls out the pockets
Of his pants, ‘As you can see son, it is not
Here.” He opens his coat it is lined with
Calendars. “As you see I have much
To do.” He closes the door, the dark worn
Heavy door, locks the door, the locking of the door
Sounding like the snapping of a large branch.
You go to the storage unit where your
Dead mother lives, black birds nesting on
The roof. You lean to the ground and knock
On the side of the wall. ‘Mother have you
Seen my story, it appears that I have lost it”
She is so tired, she only whispers, tells you
The stories of the lives of the martyrs. It’s
Not what you are looking for.
You stand up, support your weight against
The wall. The snow has begun to fall again,
The streetlight makes the flakes fall in slow
Motion. You feel yourself in slow motion.
You walk away from the storage unit.
You stare at a new blanket of white
Snow that glistens like the eyes of a
Thousand readers in front of a warm fire.
The snow makes everything so quiet,
You swear you can hear a candle burning
In a window across the street.
