The conversation included a dead person talking about “the loosed.”
Must is better than should, they said.
Then, they turned a shoulder and began to naturalize
and mull.
It must be about ________________, they said. It must be about ______________.
A finger shook.
Then the lights went out and
we felt wind-hatched.
If it dies – who will feel the story?
Who will kindle the tale in bed with their daughters? Who will salt those close corners and worsted spines?
To know it is not the same as to hear it.
The heard tale never reached here.
[or here]
The scrabbled life is still understood over-easy.
No one wants this in another style.
I want what is storied.
I want every move: Front, back, side, diagonal, in a shimmy.
Will the day come when the story is inside?
I want to dedicate this to what’s coming.
But you, you should know what’s out there.
(c) Umansky 2011
blog of poet, leah umansky 
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