I collect them, you know. Untold

Stories.  It isn’t

That they’re untold really, it’s that

They aren’t written

Down.  I started because

I am a woman.  Our stories

Are found inside our bones, behind

Smashed window panes and broken

Doors, in bottles of gin, nestled atop

Gleaming counters and under just swept

Rugs.  Sometimes they are written

In the blue of bruised children.  There are

Tales that ride the wind, whisper in your ears

At night when you think it’s just the dog

Dreaming.  There are yarns the cat plays

With sharp claws meant to comfort.  If we

Catch them, nail them down safely – no blood,

On white sheets – something gets lost: a word

Here, there a whole phrase; the ending changes

So the babies won’t cry and momma’s broken

Arm is already healed.   And the hero of the tale

Becomes, witchery you know, male.  Just ask

Little Red Riding Hood, who knows the true

Secret  of walking in the woods alone.

(untitled but dated June 2002,  by Tammy Vitale)