When we were little children ,we watched
A neighbor auntie stirring her stone pestle
To grind a smooth paste for night’s meal.
She would tell tiny boys monsters’ stories.
Her monsters grew up in a grinding stone,
Their lives hid in parrots in far off islands.
The auntie has lost her stories to dementia.
Soon we would forfeit her to morning fog.
A grind goes on till everyone is in his fog.
Now we are a business of grinding stories.
But monster souls still tick in old parrots
While parrot selves are awaiting their fog.