One Kind of Craving

The Seneca convey stories in packs.

They are made of beaten corn and a grandmother's throat.

The right youngster will push toward the wetness of the boondocks with a sling,

an inconspicuous twining wreath for the gatherings of birds. A liquid eye.

When ruffed from leaves, the breath of flight is free.

What else, the depiction of weightlessness before a staggering jump?

In a lost spot, a stone will find the youngster.

Give me your birds, she will say, and I will recap to you a story.

A stone, too, yields hunger.

The youngster is willing. Loses all of his bills.

What adornments will his grandmother make now?

The sun has given the stone a mouth. With it, she sings of what has been lost.

She unendingly sings.

The youngster tunes in disregard and reviews. Becomes redirected.

The adornment will be significant, and hard to wear.