Читать книгу Undoing Hours - Selina Boan - Страница 10

our bodies are our libraries—fully referenced in memory,

an endless resource, a giant database of stories.

—Monique Mojica

your name a story

of moss tiptoeing its way along the underbelly of language, river eyes like the crack of fat when a hide is peeled away, taste of elk, raw and soft in your teeth at easter dinner, pop of blood running on your plate, this is the half story of a boy, a man, a father who was tripped, round-lipped stumble a stream (a run, a burn, a beck), the ground and the getting up again, nuns marching across a field in the snow with their forgiveness and their stew, a girl, a woman, a mother who was making, this is you, daughter, all your quiet wants and none of your knowing, a feeling that wants to stick to the skin but can’t quite remember how, rock, paper, river, you girl are a gamble made during the planting of trees, a pickup truck and a bump of plastic beads stitched by hand, a clot of years you don’t know how to carry and the fear that this body is not where you belong