THIS IS, AS THEY SAY, ANOTHER STORY
My mouth has performed a service, storytellers.
Storytellers, all conflict-whipped. All data-hip.
The terrible channels are not all behind me, yet
I have lipped the prayers I could. Clamored to be
a songstress. Some girl in the forest. Some holy
ghostbot. I have allowed this mess to persist
and make its passion here by sling-breath, arrow-
foot. I want to open this rude flesh to what else
it must know. I have counted on it, and so I slow
the mountain in the distance, ask the snow to wait
in the car. I’ll be right there. Where the eye’s light marks
the edge of love, I will not grow a callous.