I would be lying if I said
I have no family stories.
All families do, and some of mine
are definitely the stuff of joyful telling.
Others I hold safe, my secrets
locked up tight in my heart,
a constant silent retelling
in my mind, smoke searched
and researched, unsolved
rippling mysteries, twisting riddles.
These are those deadfall solitary stories
the caged ones you feel might kill you
if you ever whisper them, even to yourself,
the tales that prowl your tossing dreams.
* * * * *
Revised Tuesday 04.25.23
What Dreams May Come
I say again I have no funny family stories worth telling.
Lots of families do, sure, and sure, some of mine
might bring some smiles, some joy, even to me.
But most will not and are held safe with me,
secrets locked tight in my heart, where there
they retell themselves, again and again, in my mind
are searched, researched, unsolved, unresolved.
They trip me, stumbling mysteries, twisting riddles.
They are solitary stories perching at the door,
the caged ones you sometimes feel
might kill you if you ever whisper them out,
the night-winged ones that prowl my unquiet dreams.