Stories High

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Stories are told in ways
As numerous as heroes’ names
Sizes various as egos wandering

The best storytellers are mothers weaving tall tales
To children who imbibed their milk
In soothing tones of silenced cries, cooing contentment

The saddest sight is a widower
Who whistles in the lonely afternoon
Against the wind, sees his wife in whirlpools of dust

The happiest sound is a bird chirping
Who knows not it has wings
But sees people shuffle their feet

Her Heart Broke

Her heart broke like the bottles of alcohol
she flung to the wall when drunk.
Not a drop of firewater
until they took all her children away --
to assimilate, she was told.

From the red man’s land
to the frontiers of abuse and beyond.
Her husband didn’t say much except, Gute!

Her eldest child never met her.
She died when eight wasn’t even nine,
too young to leave, too old in soul.
She had seven, lost them all.