Arriving at the Night Fire
in Motetema,
I feed the teachers,
morning to late light,
a feast of stories.
as the sun sifts the room
one ladles a question
onto my plate.
it lies there like the pap
we ate at lunch.
Who did you inherit story-telling from?
a big meal question.
he watches me chew. first
response,
inside, I say, No one. It started here.
but this Lazarus has raised a ghost.
I take his question down to my gut
to search for one who hands down gifts.
who multiples fish and bread.
I answer his gaze. when I
tell,
the story comes from somewhere else,
through me. You see this?
he slowly nods and smiles.
a match strikes a woodpile.
Europe and
blood and belonging
reconcile in the telling.
it is the ancestors who story through me.
a night fire ignites my belly.
16 April 2003