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?