Living Things
by Gerri Leen
She hulls seeds she will bake into bread
Waiting for people to find their way to her
When they tire of haggling over things they need
They'll come to her for things they want
Before the pulse, stories were everywhere
To watch, to listen to, to read on devices
But then machines died, and so did the power
People need heat—paper burned, books burned
She's positioned in the market between the orange seller
And the woman who scents her stall with flowers
Her stories carry the tang of juice and rose and lilies
Or evergreens and herbs if flowers are out of season
She learned the first stories from her family, then their friends
Once she had enough in her head, she invented her own
Until the true stories faded and the news ones were all she told
Today is Tuesday: serial day
She's been telling this particular story for five weeks
Sees familiar faces heading her way—this story is popular
They will pass it on when they get home, and then on again
Her story will change, transformed by different ways of telling
Her stories live this way She doesn't own them; she only tells them
They track the days of the week for her
Wednesday is children’s stories; her listeners parents and children both
Who'll gather to listen, to laugh, to gasp, even to cry
They'll take the stories home, tell them until they are worn
Like an old doll or beloved stuffed animal
Milk, eggs, meat: these things can feed you but once
Stories nourish for a lifetime