The Stories We Used to Tell

Poetry by Jacob Jing

Remember when there was a sad story
for every boy who got lost in the woods. When we cried
until there was a book laid open in front of us, smelling
of salt. Once, I could tell you the names of every child
without a mother. A stone passing from the belly into
the throat. How we only realize the weight
after it has left us. I keep carrying
so much more than myself. An invisible sadness. The way
living becomes more bearable
when we imagine it in diagrams. Exposition, we
are born with our mouths open. Conflict, someone
leaves us to die. Rising action, our stomachs
swell with stone. Climax, our lips are sutured
shut. Falling action—
Strange, how such weight translates to
such emptiness. Somewhere in between, we forgot
our own names. Our hands
collecting the tears before they can strike the ground.
We have nothing left except for these
wet palms. How they open and
close, releasing nothing but silence. How they mimic
the stories we used to tell.
How they are the last kind thing we have.