I go back to the house for a book,
but forgetfulness pulls me elsewhere—
innocent mornings, the name of silence,
the first dream slipping through my hands.
Dear reader, this is a litany on turning ten,
on child development, on nostalgia
pressed like marginalia in the margins of time,
a pinup memory flickering in flames.
I chop some parsley, distraction’s small art,
another reason I don’t keep a gun.
Consolation comes in candlelight,
like a candle hat flickering against the dark.
I do not remember ever being ten.
I don’t remember birthday cakes.
or birthday hats or presents.
I don’t remember not remembering.
I ask you—what is the art of drowning,
if not taking off clothes by a swimming pool outside,
if not madmen fishing for lost words,
if not an iron bridge we cross alone, looking down?
Embrace excogitation, the weight of absence,
the only day in existence—this one,
this morning of silence,
this moment before it fades.
WoPoLi 
Leave a comment