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Telling Stories A dancer on the roof spun into her end. We saw her body falling and a face pressed against the ground. It can't answer. Someone says: she must have been angry. Someone says: she must have been tired and sad and weak and strong enough just to end, to stop spinning. Ive had her picture framed. I keep it near the books I read, the flowers I buy to make my room sweet, fresh. We dropped masses of white all over the grave the rain came and tore them away, so slowly. Her brother calls from miles away: I miss her, I miss asking questions. We exchange stories. I speak to her each night telling a story: Once, I wanted to die, but didnt. And then the leaves turned in the wind bright, so new. That can happen. Her face is always averted. You cant make the dead listen as you walk out the door, return and say: Ill be back in two hours, just wait for me. You cant know shes gone already. Did I want to die? I stayed up all night thinking of death, then fell to sleep. Was she playing at death? The brilliant lights glared from everywhere, hundreds applauded. It was hard to see. The performance is fast and always new. Someone broke the tight circlewe all hurtled. |