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* * * The Tumbling Box As a child I learned to keep my stories to myself. Inside they spun like stones in a tumbler, one of those rotating drums for polishing amethyst, jasper, rose quartz to the smoothness of a lozenge on the tongue. And so in conversations I lagged behind. When pressed to speak I’d agree with someone else— to more than that, who’d want to listen? Even now I’m drawn to another’s version of the tale of a woman who said nothing but what she heard first from others. Her voice trailing after, repeating. For Echo nothing could have been worse than falling in love with Narcissus. Unless they’d had children. To this familiar story what can I add that hasn’t been said before? Over and over, my stones remind me. Those untrustworthy masters! Always reversing themselves, turning toward me, then away, upside, down. Never letting me have the last word with their never ending end over end. Is anybody listening? End. Over. End. * * * |
