Our Folklore
Long ago, you were molten rock, and I—
well, I spoke the language of bears.
But now that I have been out of the forest
for so long, all the words and grammar escape
me, and I often find myself lost. And you—
well, you are often mistaken for a statue
in this solid state. No more rumblings and
agitations. We are both quiet these days.
There’s a strange coupling here of natures denaturing, a kinship of loss and transformation leading to silence. Companionable silence? Folklore in the title saves this from bleak stasis. Both halves of the portmanteau word dredge in culture, accumulation, community. Like halves in a marriage, knowing each other’s histories, knowing the companionable wreckage beside us remembers how to seethe. And so I’m grateful for “Our.” The poem’s speaker owns this scenario, and so I feel welcomed in it. Thanks, Lisa!
Thank you for such a deep and thoughtful read!