The Story Teller

Christ tells me stories
that stick in me head
on quiet evenings
when the list of things I need to do
runs onto a second page.
Christ tells me stories
with a slow pace,
full of vivid, superfluous details
and large characters.

Alexis asks for help getting up
he grips my arm in one hand
and a cane in the other.
He tells me where to go:
left, right and between chairs.
He tells me he walks by the mercy of God,
angels appear everywhere he goes
they help him—this isn’t a theory
he knows this, he lives it.
I walk with him to the bathroom.
He walks slowly, arrhythmically
with frequent pauses;
he tests my patience.

Christ tells me stories within stories;
confusing stories shared over coffee,
or on smoke breaks.
Christ tells me stories
that need to be processed slowly.

At an art show they hand out fancy h’ordeurves:
bacon-wrapped dates, lavender truffles and herb pastries.
There’s free coffee.
The painter talks a lot with his hands.
His daughter hangs on one shoulder.
The painter tells me about a tree in his back-yard
that broke in a winter wind-storm.
The daughter mentions that it was a hawthorn tree.
The painting shows a branch on the ground
with fading colors disappearing into a dark gray.
The tree stands up the left side
with another branch reaching over top
with bright reds and oranges.
He points to the distance between the two branches.
His daughter shows her braces and smiles big
as they tell me about spring in Walla Walla.

The sun is wandering up the mountains behind Vancouver.
They look like they’ve been kissed
by someone who’s just eaten a powdered donut.
Christ is still telling me stories.
I don’t understand them,
but they stick in my head.