i am not here to tell you how to live your life.

i am here to tell about mine.

the bones are the same

and the pulse, quietly making love to the inside of the wrist

—the faithful kiss of it in the notch of the neck, even as

strangers we share this—you and i.

i tell my stories so that we don’t forget, because we forget

the things that call us to each other.

this is always a loss.

every day i take all the words that i own, shaping them

into gentle provocations, the sting of which i have already

removed.

only the stimulus remains. the record of it.

always i hope that someone might stumble over it, be

forced to sit down, be forced to see what lies at their feet

—to see a thing that they have never seen before, perhaps

another life. the singular stories that litter the bones of other humans.

the courage of the telling. the beauty of it.

and behind it all, the invitation—a willingness

to draw close.

admittedly, here i am speaking of leaning in, of inclining the head, of unbuttoning the chest, of opening the heart.

it is easy to look away, especially when the edges are too

sharp, but listen, somebody has lived a life that you

will never have to.

the magnitude of this, the grace of it, the not knowing the exact shape of another’s life unless they choose to give it to you.

unless you choose to receive it from their mouth.

again, a gentle provocation.

but thank goodness for words and their shadows, for stories that breathe long after we have left.

these are the things that we leave behind.

today the sky was a small promise.

for a moment, empty of all its water, it was big and blue.

a talisman. a sure sign.

i have a habit of tucking common signs and wonders into my pockets.

i carry them home with me.

late at night i hold them up to my ear and listen to the sounds they make.

perhaps you do this too?

i walked, empty, in search of a miracle, but the iris was kind

enough to show herself just above the boggy green of the

pond and there was just enough strapping leaf for my eyes to hold onto.

it was all i could do to stop myself from climbing out of the boat and walking onto the water.

it has been done before.

but i was afraid that i would sink like a stone and silently go under, the waves just waiting to drag me down and swallow me whole.

i was afraid there would be no voice to calm the storm.

there are entire seasons in which i carry my faith in a teaspoon.

still, there was the leaf. there was the iris.

and everywhere i looked there were things bursting into life.

drops of yellow were scattered over the small blades of gorse

and the smell of it was a reliable thing.

have you ever smelled gorse on a sunny day?

it was a small consolation calling my name across the withered reeds and the dead grasses.

there are lives that you have not tasted.

you should be glad for this.

i am.

i know the outline of mine well by now.

each selvedge is familiar.

i know most of my wants and desires by name.

i have long conversations with my aching losses.

of course, you have hidden lives too

—the names of which i have not been introduced to.

there are corners that i probably would not want to inhabit.

i fear that i might not be strong enough.

i want to hear your stories and i want to tell mine.

there are days that my life reminds me that i am only just remembering how to breathe.

a body can forget how to exhale.

i have done this, and yet somehow i have survived.

some things need to be learnt from the beginning.

from scratch.

a lesson in how to let go of the air inside your lungs.

i have struggled with this.

there have been times that i have forgotten the shape of hope, its quiet voice, and always breathing just beneath the unmarked surface of my skin, there lies shame, holding my mute tongue in its crippled hands.

i so often yield my life to its toothless presence.

when i have allowed myself to be held hostage by it, i end up robbing you.

all the honest moments in which you could have said to yourself in your most relieved voice, the one you fetch from the cupboard when another tired body has stripped themselves of their outside skin in front of you:

dear God, thank you. this is me too.

what i mean to say, is that i am not here to tell you

how to live your life. all your stories belong to you.

i am only here to tell about mine.

there are corners of it that you would not want to live in.

we forget the things that call us to each other, the courage of the telling.

how we all need water.

how we hold cups with which we might serve each other.

we need to hear failure fall from each other’s mouths.

shame withers in the presence of this, and then having been seen

an ordinary miracle occurs

—we unfurl.

we begin to live.

dear God, thank you. this is me too.

i am not here to tell you how to live your life.

i am here to tell about mine.

this is what i am trying to say with this poem.

© liezel graham 2022

from my book, The Velveting Bones.