HOW TO REACH ME SWITCH PLATE IN CHICKEN

i know the stories you told me at night were just stories. the tall man living in the tall house with his tall dog until the tall wind blew him away. the children who kept going in and out of cabinets and appearing in other worlds. the secret gardens. the family who lived in a boat turned upside down on the shore of an ocean. a dragon who could be coerced by lollipops. the rain (oh that rain) that made applesauce.

i know they were just stories. but the way the room lit up at night wasn’t a story. the way the stars flew in the window. the way your words strung together a reality that took my breath away. none of that was a story. and when you had to leave (did you really have to leave?) it took me some time to discover the secret of the switch plate you left on my wall. her prosaic scene. the chickens pecking at a dusty bowl.

it wasn’t until a few night later when i flicked off the light and then just lay in bed: thinking of chickens, of women in bonnets, of your voice and stars, of tall men, of tree houses and worlds hidden behind couch cushions that i noticed something. the silo, yes, the one you see behind the barn, is full of stories. full of them. sifting over and under and through each other like wheat. and when the light is off and the chickens slow their pecking, you can hear the stories. the light chatter chatter chatter of stories elbowing and trying to peek their way out the chinks in the wood. in the dark, i still have my stories. and it makes it easier to miss you.