NaPoWriMo Poem 3: The Teller

The Teller

This is my story.

I am an owl. I am the baker’s daughter.

I do not cast a shadow in the dark.

This is my story.

I was found in a snail shell.

My nights leave gleaming whispered trails.

This is my story.

I was born among the stones.

My words are strata heavy on themselves.

This is my story.

I saw something in a bleached sheep’s skull

lying in its scatter of bones.

This is my story.

Each hour I wash my mouth with ink,

drink to that furious and empty head.

Sally Douglas

This poem came from Day 2's prompt on the National Poetry Writing Month's website. The prompt was to write a poem that told a lie. I started by writing myself a list of lies and playing around with them, but got nowhere. Then in the middle of the night, the phrase 'this is my story' came to me. Without turning on the light I fumbled for my notebook, and hoping desperately that I was starting on a blank page, I wrote two pages of notes that this morning became this poem. And which of course turned out to not be a lie at all.

Photo: Sally Douglas