we write our bible.
What if it’s all fiction?
What do we do when the stories we live by become as thin as the pages they are print, print, reprinted on and on.
Babel did this, or so I’ve been told.
Now the history we write will be seen in languages-
Marketing him like the realtor on your block.
Now, every home has had one.
Under the bed, in the nightstand, squeezed in the bookshelf between romance novels that need an age appropriate rating slapped on the cover.
some call it,
next to his word, or her word, or maybe they’re just words that feel distant from them being put on repeat.
Replayed. Over and over reheard.
Now back to stories.
Stories grandma reads to save us all.
Stories that can’t be traced.
Stories that give us holidays to spend with a loved one,
to grab a drink on,
to reflect another-looks shitty, no money-year on.
And now the days pass quickly,
never knowing how old they are.
The stories, I mean.
The life lessons, I mean.
And as my body becomes bones waiting to be dug up,
will my children’s, children’s child grow up with the stories I know now?
Or will history have a new author next time around?
Because the world can’t stop spinning while we cycle through our stories,
like youth playing telephone,
constant changes passed down.
Sweep. Mop. Dust. Wipe. Scrub. Scoop. Dump. Soak. Rinse. Hands and knees till my knuckles bleed;
I’m going to make a fabulous housewife someday.