Friday

12232011

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.