telling stories

a few times each year
i am convinced of the end
of singleness, the beginning
of a singularity, i become convinced
of the infinite curve of love.

my grandma, like all Black grandmothers
perhaps, told me do not tell stories,
by which she meant do not lie except we couldn’t say “lie,”
which was a curse word in her house.

my grandma, like all Black grandmothers
perhaps, told me stories about where we were
from, & who we were from, & the unbroken string
of happy accidents & hapless miracles that made us possible.

my grandma used to say worse thing in the world a liar or a thief,
& i know i have been both these most deplored before.

my grandma used to say i love you.

my grandma gone.
my convictions gone too.
does that mean an end
to the long curve of her love
or mine?

does that mean i love you
is always bound to end up
a story? if so what kind?
the worst thing or
one of the small impossibilities
that put us here.