This Magpie Tale is confused by the winds of history.
Whisked in on the indifferent wings of the Angel of Chaos,
the family is confused, constructed and displaced.
Adrift, adroit, adjusting to the Playground of Danger
and trying to understand the meaning of the season’s rituals.
They speak the language, they recite the scribe’s texts
just as they are written, but are they magpies or mockingbirds?
Squeezing out the juice from the fruit from the mulberry bush
they hope to disguise their identity with a new pigment on their flesh.
What odd chateau have we found here on the sands of
a mysterious river that tries to project meaning onto history?
What is history and what is myth? What fictions did the cave
dwellers etch on the walls of their windowless abodes?
We grasp for meaning but it melts in the hot embrace of our curious palms.