In every old familiar place. Out the train car window, across the marsh where the gulls scatter and the sky looks flat. Roads winding along ferny foliage and down to the quarry that looms like a lightless portal. On the highway where the air outside is hot and dry and red and silent aside from the engine. At the levy where the steep slabs stairstep down to the river. We were like cave paintings, or cave people, pre-historic and pre-destined, they’d say. No one is bothered by our revised past, by the retelling or blatant rewrite. Smile and not mention it, this part of my life involves so much pretending.
I cannot remember, I complain, but it isn’t that, really. I cannot remember because when I do it is a suffering deeper than I fear I can hold, and in it’s glance I cripple to the floor. I cannot remember because it was a different color then than it is now and I do not want to tarnish either side. I do not want to wish it gone but it cannot stay here with me. If it did, it would consume me so quickly I would come out the end another shape. How would I recognize myself then? In these moments when I cannot remember, I will look to the moon.
recent 