I’ve never crushed a basket
or a skull. I don’t know
what it sounds like.
My family tells me
they sound the same:
if I crush a basket I will hear the sound
of the several pieces
of a crushed skull
rushing together
by order of a god.
Chapter 1.
My family tells the story
of a coal-miner ancestor:
escaped indentured servitude in Wales
to serve something else in America:
converted to Mormonism,
landed in Pennsylvania, coal-mined
its hills to keep living. It’s what
he knew.
Chapter 2.
My family tells the story
of a cave-in that crushed
his skull—so that was how
I told it.
I said
he asked
for the missionaries
and a gallon of olive oil—
I didn’t realize that part
was supposed to be funny
until the audience laughed:
the ritual only calls
for a drop.
It’s only funny
if you know the ending:
don’t think what his mouth must have looked like,
don’t think what his voice must have sounded like,
making his last joke—
with his skull being crushed and all.
Chapter 3.
The ending:
they came,
with the consecrated oil,
and they healed him:
their hands on his head, they said
the words,
and felt the crushed skull-bones
un-crush together, re-fuse
with a splintered crash—“a sound
like the crushing
of a basket.”
Those were their words.
Chapter 4.
I hear it,
and I feel it:
the healing
sounds like breaking
and the story
breaks me open
and I want more.
Chapter 5.
The finding was another breaking.
I was crushed
when I opened the book
where my grandfather wrote down the story
to find that it isn’t
the story I remember him telling.
And when I go to the appendix
of the same book to find
corroboration
I find another version instead.
Because my family told me
one thing, and my grandpa wrote
another, and the appendix
tells someone else’s,
all mismatched, the whole thing
fragile as a basket,
already broken, already
always
in pieces.
Chapter 6.
And they all
told me
without telling me
that somehow these all proved
each other.
My family told me
without telling me
[the story was
true], that [it mattered]
that [it was true],
that [it proved
everything
true]:
our ancestors were [right
to join this church],
we are [right] to be [in this
church], we are [right]
to [stay].
Chapter 7.
It’s all fun and family folklore
and the inconsistencies are all fine
and natural and to be expected
when it’s a hundred and fifty years old
until you realize
all the stories are like this.
The ones you’re told
to stake your life on,
give everything for.
Like he didn’t. Because
it wasn’t his skull.
Chapter 8.
I understand
in every version
the message
is the same: our god
heals. The god
who did this is the god
of our family, and this is why
we follow him
like our ancestors did.
It matters that my family tells me
that it’s true.
I am crushed
to realize what they meant
by “true.”
Chapter 9.
They say,
“Re-fuse” [Come back
together, like the bones
in the story].
“Refuse” [Don’t believe
anything that threatens
this truth].
Chapter 10.
. I
. am crushed
. I
. refuse
. their hands
. and
. the oil
.let
. them
.think I
. am
. joking
Charisse Stephens is a poet and teacher with a Master’s in English Literature from Berkeley. Her work is published or forthcoming in Last Leaves and The Body’s Experience of Religion anthology. Though she grew up in the flatlands of Ohio, the mountains always felt like home, and she now lives in Salt Lake City with her partner, two kids, and dog Polly.
