Lewis, Lisa

English

University of Montana

CutBank Volume 1 Issue 24 CutBank 24 Article 11 Spring 1985 The Stories We Know Lisa Lewis Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.umt.edu/cutbank  Part of the Creative Writing Commons Let us know how access to this document benefits you. Recommended Citation Lewis, Lisa (1985) "The Stories We Know," CutBank: Vol. 1 : Iss. 24 , Article 11. Available at: https://scholarworks.umt.edu/cutbank/vol1/iss24/11 This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks at University of Montana. It has been accepted for inclusion in CutBank by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks at University of Montana. For more information, please contact scholarworks@mso.umt.edu. The Stories WeSara, there’s no th ing  here of my own.U ntil today, a bank  of weeds maskedT he front of the house, and  its ro tting  basements.A  young w om an worked, cutting the stalks.It’s no t because of her th a t I th ink  of you,But because I’m alone; and weeds,G reat felled forests of over-sized daisy A nd  thistle, cover the yard.A  lizard, quick as its own tongue,Hurries from shadow to shadow in hopes T h at somewhere shelter exists.I’m not quick or willingEnough to try to catch its neon tail,W hich, I’ve learned, it would leave In my hand, barter for its escape.T he friendship of women is easy to  understand . W henever I go to my true hom e,T he one I claim, I go to  you,A nd  the rank apartm ent stinking of catpiss;A nd  the furniture draped with your uniforms;A nd  your shoes like broken toys all over the floor; A nd  the box of cereal open and stale O n  the radiator; and the Scrabble scores O n  envelopes, w ith yours forever highest Because you love to cheat;A nd  the dozens of plants campaigning for water W ith an om inous dropping of leaves;A nd  books on the shelves from classesT h at we took together, starvedFor the love of our desperate teachers;A nd the nam e of your bro ther,W hich is everywhere bu t mostly unspoken Because he took his own life.O nce I though t a photo  of himLisa LewisWas of you at an awkward age.Because I d idn’t know, I laughed.Because in my foolishness I hurt you,His story became my business,The details my duty to keep.Stories are secrets that fell from grace,From the elegance of the heart’s solitude.The older we grow, the less we workTo find out things that once we wept to uncover—A nd we were a team, ransacking.We stayed out of each others’ way.Now you say: Let it be known what we found.I’d like to have back our conspiracies,O ur peerless confidence born of fear.But we faltered. We began to grow up.Now it’s plain that the scratching we hear At the unlocked window is only an elm In need of pruning, or a sparrow come down From confusing heights and lost For a moment on earth. We’re no longer A t the center of things, and if we’re now Less visible, we’re warm with the jostling O f crowds around us. We’re closerTo the unwashed heavens, yet we’re still Ourselves, discrete, a thous-and miles between us. T hat is what stars feel, pulsing strongly Against a deep black background. Sara,I’ve never wanted many friends.I’ve longed to be one of your blood kin,With your bad dental records A nd sturdy bones. A nd I’ve longed To stop aging or simply to die young,But painlessly, like a watch left outdoors O n a damp night, or a canvas W ith the figure of a lovely girl29Lisa LewisBlocked in, and set aside.O n  the phone you tell me th a t in the past weeksY ou’ve been moved to tearsBy inconsequence—a story overheardWhile waiting in line, of a boyQ uestioned by police on crimesA bout which he knew nothing.I tell you all the stories I know.M ost of them  you’ve heard already.They sound like jokes in com parisonTo the one th a t flickered from a d istan t sourceLike a star burning out in sorrow.W hen the weeds take root again, I’ll dream  O f every acre on earth  they claim,A nd  then  I’ll come and tell you.I’ll know how to make us bo th  laugh.30

The Stories We Know

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