Two storytellers meet
by chance or by fate.
Your stories are told by ink and skin;
mine by words and scars.
New stories are told when
ink meets words and skin meets scars.
An eight inch abdominal incision intersects an Alaskan totem.
(accidentally scarred by my father)
traces the sun, moon and stars on your back.
My tears provide the saltwater for
The small scar by my right eye, nearly invisible,
is lost among the rings and lines of your body which has become your art.
Even side by side in silence the stories are being told:
Unlikely stories that will end up being told again and again
by shamans and jesters,
by preachers and prostitutes.
Told in abandoned cathedrals and at
bonfires built by the sea.