Big Talking Rocks
Issue 106 Fiction Poetry Nonfiction Art + Photography Film Music Books For Creators more

Big Talking Rocks

 Wren Tuatha
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 Wren Tuatha
Big Talking Rocks
by Wren Tuatha  FollowFollow
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Cricket herder, waiting for the next tree to fall.
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Big Talking Rocks
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I’m moving the muscles to breathe in
cold water. They feel like bone in the effort.

 

We had the same brand of toothpaste

on the night we didn’t speak of the

dimming between us.

 

Snow that doesn’t stay.

 

You would kiss me poetically

then pull a story out of me like a

magician’s scarf, red then yellow

through my throat.

 

I undressed to expose skin

printed with stories I should have

withheld, psychic tattoos with ink so

shiny you were afraid to

 

touch and be branded.

 

I’m moving the muscles to speak of

big talking rocks, monoliths like

grandmother trees, who have

stories in whispered radio waves

 

because they stayed.

 

They speak in hugging colors and

purring hum smiles because they

watched while mammoths, raccoons,

wrens and Americans

 

skittered in circles that never avoided

their fate. Their muscles made them do it

while big talking rocks wrote the

mythology of staying long enough

 

for restlessness to have its season.

I brought the brand of toothpaste

you use. I have enough for the season of

 

snow that sticks.

 

1 comments

Discussion

  14 months ago
"grandmother trees and stories whispered in radio waves" I do like your imagery and the story you spin
 

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