The Story, Around the Corner
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
pieced 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.

The poet supposes the story (of her concern) will take a twist and turn, not as straightforward as like common talk. When circumstances change, the elements of the story are turning dark and take its own side. The poet feels strange because the story is actually far more complicated than what people tell in a city which only knows shopping and where the poet does not live in and does not belong to. But the people whom don’t know the real side of the story will give out different kinds of versions of the story. The story seems like having its own life and ever-changing freely. The poet does not dare to tell a tiny bit of her story because she is confused that if it is what the people in the city want to hear. The poet even doubts if the stories which wander around in the city are being told with a hideous motive behind. The bits and pieces of the story are starting to catch the attention of people who want to know the truth and the poet feels that someday she has a responsibility to tell the real story when the demand is growing high.

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