Stories got more cannibal, like

their bellies ache hungry

to chew something up, like

they won’t make it to old age

if they don’t lead with the

sharp teeth.

Stories in the margins

don’t trust us in long-tooth page.

We forgot holy shelving;

how to keeper them in the good tree

& pull them from the fires.

Now they save themselves

from hungry headlines with

fang and fight, & the light

God gives the smallest.

We didn’t get too old,

we got too big.

.

I promise our tomorrow

a return to small keeper.

To break a feathered beast

back to flock of bird.

To take from flame & fill the nest

& share the feed.

.

I know we did not lose the light for good.

.

Alex, I’m holding a book written behind footnotes. A story so forgotten it should have been eaten up.

.

Alex, I’m holding a book you rescued.

I’m calling it proof.