a tribute to Wallace Stevens
Among all the callings in the world,
The one that spoke to me
Was that of storyteller.
It is the only frequency I vibrate in.
Because I am only one person,
Except when I am writing.
Then I am many.
We are all part of stories we did not choose.
This is the best way I know to reimagine them.
Writing my thoughts down
Was like putting on glasses at 15
and looking in a mirror.
For the first time,
I see myself with clarity.
To remind myself
Of the things I know
In case I forget
that I know them.
There are some things I cannot say.
I am unaware of this until
Suddenly, I do.
To prove to myself
That even when things get destroyed,
When pages get burned,
When all my hard work was for naught,
Well- that’s okay too.
I know enough
To know that really, I know nothing
But talking about all that nothing
Almost feels like something.
When the story is finally on the page,
It makes a map,
And from there,
I can create context from the chaos.
Because how else will I learn
All the things I need to know?
I cannot always wait
For the lessons to find me.
Sometimes I must write them myself.
We are all leaving pieces of ourselves behind.
At least this way I am doing it on purpose.
The world is spinning.
My page is still.
Because there are certain stories I want to tell,
Even when I am not yet the kind of person
Capable of telling those stories.
That is okay.
I will wait,
Because I want to be that person,
And by writing, I can become her.
I arrive one word at a time.