BY DIANE GLANCY
It moved inside us,
the old story before the story,
a fleeing too hard to forget.
In the primitive landscape
bushes became wolves
and the wolves wrote the government reports.
They stung our hunting grounds with their words,
leaving a trail we followed.
Once our stories were round
but the wolves made them square as their houses.
Turn down the corners of their books
until they are round as pie plates
on the counter in the crowded cafe.
They divided our way of knowing.
Our stories now a bookstore
at the site of the old fort.
The wolves kept up their reports—
on the shelving and window sash.
Their reportage only made what happened
happen again on paper,
a map work still legible as rock drawings.
I tell you they occupied the land
leaving us to this day
their bookshelves and cabinetry.