A (My) Story Poem by Ben Partenay

Those grey hills, perpendicular
to slanted clouds, I was young
so young, and everything
was coming or going or
falling or dancing, and
horizontal trees
sprung from
sideways cracks in
ornamental haste.

I realized, too late
much too late
that I was running
away,
not towards,
not against,
but away.
And the little houses
all clapboard paintings
of a place I wanted
to call home, were stains
of laughter meant for
someone else.

Now I speak to
the hills of my youth
and tell them:
If you tell someone
a story
any story, maybe even
your story
and you spill it and spell it
and behind you the gray
hills are still searching for sun
and the sideways trees
reach out to you
but they have thorns
and brittle promises.
Then run,
run and never regret.

But
if you tell someone
your story and they drink
it, gulp it, and come back
for more words about
the why and how
of you, then run
to them, maybe even
write them in to
that story of yours.

I say this having
still never
run towards
anyone, anything.

But this is my story and
I wear my story like
a badge of courage but
tell everyone
it is just for looks.
Those grey hills
I still see them
oblique and sidelong
falling from the fog.