Story by Jennifer Firestone
There is a Story at a beach. There is a couple evolving and devolving inside a new-fangled form of the couplet. There is the landscape: the ocean, sand, and sun that language flails in trying to recreate. “The beach reached for them but slipped. / The beach shells and sound. / The beach the one syllable until soft.” Story is a cryptic film, an old photograph, a mystery, where narrative, memory, truth, and trauma are interrogated, where creditability slips much like the language that is storytelling. Where, “what is the truth but what we say.”
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