she said,
do you remember when we . . . ?
i said,
i don't.
she chattered away
about one memory
and the other,
her voice fluttering
like the wings of
a disoriented moth,
trapped within the
confines of what
it does not know.
she said,
do you remember when we . . . ?
i said,
i don't.
i thought how sinister
how odd
the feeling of oblivion,
like a blind foot
misplaced upon
an unyielding crack,
voluntary or not
but obscuring, always
the sanctity of memory.
but, what delusion!
i tell myself now.
there is no such thing
as oblivion.
there is no such thing
as a seamless seam.
there is no such thing
as sweeping things out
and shutting the door.
there is always a keyhole
a peephole
a crack.
