The transportative qualities of memory

March 17, 2021

There’s not a body under the floorboard or anything

No rank stench

It’s not a detective novel, thrillingly leading you to a nice chianti fft ftt ftt

Actually, the further away you get from it

The less it feels real

I wonder if this is why Bill Cosby was so incensed when they finally caught him

The memory

Like the sweetness of your breath

Fades and brittles

Fractures disintegrates

And then maybe doesn’t exist

Except we both knew it does.

Everyone who was there knows something about it

And we all walk around in the masked sunlight

Buying and selling houses

And groceries

And turning in papers

And tucking in children

And pouring coffee

And this morning, snagged by her eye as I walked by the mirror

My topmost layer was hooked

And drug off

And left hanging

And out of the corner of my eye

I saw her – the me of before

And all the Shambles Men shuffling after her

And I knew, and I know

And we’ve always known

That the hard acorn of horror

Never really fades

Transported, yes

But now I can skip across the surface of the memories from bright spot to bright spot

Like a stone across the glassy lake

Only touching the surface long enough to make a pattern

It’s not a rock

It’s a bird

Its tiny hooked feet catching the water

Like her eye catching mine as I glide past the darkening mirror.

“don’t stop moving” she whispers, and turns for battle.