by naomi shihab nye from you & yours
is not turning the way you thought
it would turn, gently, in a little spiral loop,
the way a child draws the tail of a pig.
what came out of your mouth,
a riff of common talk.
as a sudden weather shift on a beach,
sky looming mountains of cloud
in a way you cannot predict
or guide, the story shuffles elements, darkens,
takes its own side. and it is strange.
far more complicated than a few phrases
pierced together around a kitchen table
on a july morning in dallas, say,
a city you don’t live in, where people
might shop forever or throw a thousand stories
away. you who carried or told a tiny bit of it
aren’t sure. is this what we wanted?
stories wandering out,
having their own free lives?
maybe they are planning something bad.
a scrap or cell of talk you barely remember
is growing into a weird body with many demands.
one day soon it will stumble up the walk and knock,
knock hard, and you will have to answer the door.
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