Cuento Cup (Photo credit Joseph Rios, found on Michele Serros's Facebook page) |
Your Own Stories
My grandfather rolled rice
of his own
mixed with zucchini
and lemon and allspice
and memories of home
slapped in the face for what
he might have done wrong,
it took time to crack the code
and produce seeds and vines
and long, hungry lines
But, like baklava
and sweetened honey,
and rocks
and borrowed money,
his stories fell from bigger
places where they
migrated
and cultivated
and congregated
together --
stretching and reaching
toward an illusive sun
you can't admire the beauty
and ignore your own
son,
or daughter
hello, I know you're there!
One by one,
they denied the bribe with false
condolences...
we had full intentions
of including you
next time,
once things took off, and became a
little more
real
we were going to let you in
to the viewing room
to spy and stare
and
echo and share
your own stories
but first we had to get
the people to stick
like stolen, rotten syrup,
dwelling
blank, on the plate,
damn you are too late
why did you wait?!
that's what happens
when you're hungry,
for the cash
and the flash
and the unlucky dine and dash
you don't mind
that you forgot
and left behind
your own kind
Are you sorry yet?
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