We lean on our stories the way
we lean on our canes
for a sense of stability,
to feel solid ground beneath our feet
who would we be without our stories
that tell us who we are
daughter of an alcoholic
mother of a disabled child
are we living on light from dead stars
the present glued to the past
like black and white photos of people in fedoras
and feathered boas staring from a family album
stories stitched to us like shadows
stuck to our soles like chewing gum
staying past their appointed season
smothering possibility
could we let stories go like helium balloons
watching them float colorfully away
like a flock of Starlings
would we dare live new ones
while leaning on our CVS canes
and letting our lives flow?
