Ancestor Play

Ancestor Play

by Griffy LaPlante

     Touch me, darling, like I’m not a
fragile thing. Because I’m not! Well, because I’m  determined  not  to  be.  I’ve  spent  too much of my youngish life with bird fragile bones  and  a  papier mâché  rib  cage  that fractured microscopically with each sharply drawn breath. I want no more of that, I want no more auto broken ribs. I want a body that doesn’t  run  from  pain, from  risk. I want a  soul  that  doesn’t  run  from  them,  either. Treat me please like I am hearty, more stew than  soup.  Like  I’m  a  vessel  and  a  useful one, seaworthy and stoic, or a well woven satchel  that  can  transport  herbs  and  onions and oats—so many oats—more oats than we need but before long it will be winter and we mustn’t  be  unprepared.  Have  you  shucked the corn? Have you fed the flame? Have you gone  out  yet  and  trained  your  good  eye  at the yellow moon, thrown back your mousy head,   cried   wolf?   The   wolves   are   out  tonight,  o  mousy  one,  but  I  will  keep  you safe if you grip me tight enough. Bite my neck hard  enough.  So  much  descends  from  our straw  stuffed  bed.  So  much  more  than  we will ever, ever know.