Burning Bush

amywink January 19th, 2019

Burning Bush

Sometimes the story
arrives and will not
go away, appearing
and appearing,
asking to be told,
nudging into your life
slowly working into you,
becoming your story
with the story.
You see it everywhere.
You carry it always.

But it’s not my story,
we might say,
trying to give it back,
thinking of our imperfections,
of reasons why others
would be upset,
thinking of who has had
the right to speak and
who has been prevented
from speaking.

And yet
the story keeps asking,
tell this, tell this,
as if the story has arrived
precisely for you to tell,
as if the story had chosen
because the story needs
the first telling that
only you will give
so as to trigger
the retelling that must
always begin somewhere,
with someone
who understands
the risks of telling,
understands more
the risks of silence,
who says, even reluctantly,
I will tell this.
Let this begin with me.

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