I told my story to a waitress, she brought me jasmine tea.
I told my story to a Buddhist monk, he hit me over the head with a book.
I told my story to a stranger, she said we should kick that woman’s ass.
I told the story to my passport, which said I needed a better story.
My story was told to a shaman’s mirror, and it returned backwards.
My story was told to a banker, she offered me a lower interest rate.
At the time of the sun’s orange rising,
The malevolent nyen spirits overheard my story.
The nyen cast down the kidneys of a foothill fox.
Earth was hurled down from the windy ridge.
Climbers say that if you can see their lines,
you will know who they are.
I told Alex Honnold my story.
He said, “Be wary of the free solo.”
Perched on the Dawn Wall, I told Tommy Caldwell my story.
He was so surprised he dropped his cell phone.
Hanging 3,000 feet in the air, I told Jimmy Chin my story.
He took a picture of my story and my rope.
He held his breath so the ice crystals would not be in the frame.
I lied about my story to make myself feel better.
I told my dead stepson my story;
He was playing soccer in the bardo.
I told the house on Pa Cow Road my story,
and it groaned like old houses are wont to do.
I told my story to my dead ex-husband,
and he apologized.
I told a fig tree my story,
It hurled pear-shaped pods in every direction.
I dreamt my story and it came out Picasso. Ears up here. No neck.
I dreamt my story in an airport, a guard gave me a pretzel.
My teacher Nick Flynn entered my dream, and a kangaroo emerged from his back.
I offered food and drink to the spirits of the land, they looked at me oddly.
I told my story to a book, and it grew too heavy to hold.
A bowl of duck noodles said it would love me forever.
A fish monger listened to my story and said it made perfect sense.
A thief scolded me for giving her my story.
I told myself my story and it crumbled like old bricks.
My ex-husband’s first wife was told my story and she repeated it back to me.
My ex-husband’s third wife was told my story and she also told it back to me.
Cool winds threw me a mink stole.
A pair of koi fish blew bubbles back at me.
Surfers pray for waves that swell for a thousand miles and break
at just the time
when the waves are at 80% of the water’s depth.
The surfers look to ride the face of the wave, just before it breaks.
Or maybe it’s the waves that yearn for that.
I told my story to my hairdresser and she charged me extra.
I told her scissors my story, they stared at me blankly.
A grammarian conjugated my story.
The same monk sprinkled holy water on me with a peacock fan.
A nurse pumped me with fluids.
Mt. Fuji didn’t think my story was worth the paper.
Do not pronounce the name of a mountain carelessly.
Kairotic is a gorgeous new word I just learned.
Opportune.
When conditions are just right.
A Tibetan herdswoman sees a rainbow leading to the mouth of a cave,
Leading her inside.
It is just the right time to discover a 10th century terma hidden treasure,
A scroll with ancient recipes for quelling negative emotions.
A fortune teller listened to my story and said it was hard to tell.
I laid a grid and tried to appease the spirits of the hillside.
My son believed my story.
My stepdaughter had front row seats.
My parents cried like rain.
In ancient Tibet, the dakini sky dancers used twilight language like a code.
Floating through clouds, the sky dancers protected humans from demons,
bad weather, and negative emotions.
“The Beloved,” is what mountains were called.
Sky dancers drew magic circles, gathering power in vertical space.
This poem was inspired by Heather Tone’s poem Gestures from Likenesses (Copper Canyon Press, 2016, pg. 15-23) and José Cabezón’s book Tibetan Ritual (Oxford University Press, 2009, p. 232). The poem was also inspired by the podcast series Climbing Gold by Alex Honnold and Fitz Cahall.