Lehua M. Taitano

The Seneca carry stories in satchels. They are made of  pounded corn and a grandmother’s throat. The right boy will approach the dampness of a forest with a sling, a modest twining wreath for the bodies of  birds. A liquid eye. When ruffed from leaves, the breath of  flight is dissolute. What else, the moment of  weightlessness before a great plunge? In a lost place, a stone will find the boy. Give me your birds, she will say, and I will tell you a story. A stone, too, admits hunger. The boy is willing. Loses all his beaks. What necklace will his grandmother make now. The sun has given the stone a mouth. With it, she sings of what has been lost. She sings and sings and sings. The boy listens, forgets, remembers. Becomes distracted. The necklace will be heavy, impossible to wear.