I listen to the storyteller
her words drip
pomegranate wine
thick and deep and flavorful.
the trick to the story, she says
is within you.
the teacher laughs
calls my words
esoteric
there are too many things,
she sighs,
I could never know.
eso
Greek, meaning
from within,
it doesn't matter
that my ancestors
ripped the language
from my tongue.
I inherited the scars
of secrecy.
you cannot tell a story with secrets
I didn't mean to be so obscure,
I complain to the storyteller.
only on the wings of wind
I've wandered
across train tracks and red soil
even today my ribs ache
with the languages of every man
I've ever known.
|and I keep writing in riddles,
these metaphors will remain unexplained
because even I never know
where I'll end up.
YOU ARE READING
Shy Anger
PoetryA collection of poems digging into the emotions and experiences that we sometimes try to hide - from love to anxiety to anger and disappointment.
