Memory Wipe
Parse old things to dec-
ide which memories deserve
to be forgotten
i.
poet writes:
in the eight
o’clock hour
we will flower.
ii.
baker doesn’t:
in the ate
o’clock hour
we will flour.
graduations
weddings
lives
concerts
live theatre
dinner inside a restaurant
more lives
squeezing avocadoes
daycare
smelling canteloupes
in-person learning
going to the office
movies in cinemas
meeting for coffee
still more lives
pulse oximeters
snow day attitudes
sore butt, worn couch cushions
thermometer checks
zooms
birding
banana bread
curbside takeout
telehealth
nti
zoom happy hour
kroger clicklist
pajama pants with dress shirts
sourdough
more frickin’ zooms
My worries are stones, falling from
the day before setting the timer
on the detonator
he remembered the last time
he really, truly felt normal
and the joy and despair of knowing
that this would be the very last time
getting to enjoy this
to enjoy anything at all
to be loved unconditionally
and the thought of losing that happiness
his family
was enough to push him to the edge of
sanity
so even if the details are removed here
please understand how
these kind of things can change a man
into a shell or a husk of his former self
who has reached a point beyond reproach or help
and given the choice between build and destroy
he chose to create a bomb
and spray his shrapnel on everyone as a form of
Revenge
and when it inevitably explodes, wounding and
maiming foes, rivals, family and friends
in the aftermath asking where should it end
and this is the point in the poem where i would
include something positive or uplifting
if i could
but the pain was too great to ignore
and so
he set the the bomb down on the floor
in his empty house he closed the door
wrote BISD on the top of the page
slid it under the door and pressed detonate
when the police came they found his note
and even though the words he wrote
explained the pain that he was in
the pain they thought he’d spread to them
contained to the thoughts he had in his brain
where he specifically said in his letter
that he spared them the pain
of being a lost loved one and being the next
link in a chain of the butterfly effect
and the last letters he wrote at the top of the page
“before i self destruct”-a self-contained rage
In hindsight, this was a day of self-reckoning
Where if you change one thing,
You change
Forty like you mean it!
And I do. The last six weeks, a whirlwind
tour of love. On the road & back again so many
times. I have seen
so many people, a weaving
together of all these parts of myself,
in ways both healing &
affirming. I would not be
the person I am today without every minute
of the last forty years. This milestone
a celebration of the threads,
long, tangled & multi-colored,
that connect me to each of you.
Let’s sit together this time,
in space
& say
“so, who are we now?” The answer,
invariably both everything & ever-changing,
like a poem.
To be known through grief & loss,
that constant evolution of self, is to be
truly known. When I lost my mom,
my step-mom, when I ended
my long-term partnership, closed off
a new & deeply profound love—all this alongside
the joys. Yes, always too the joys.
The stitch of grief
runs deep, just like all my relationships do—
scattered now in space & time.
So, happy birthday to me. But, really, to you
for making it all the more meaningful,
mile-filled, & messy!
—dedicated, with love, to all my friends & family who have made the last few weeks (and years) so sweet—
do you remember the day
your lips met her lips
the day your tongue
touched her tongue
the moment you chose
her (you) for the first time?
do you remember the liminal
space between who you
believed you were and who
you became right there
in that moment when
just the parting of her lips
became your portal
home?
As the mid-day sun
has pulled the sweat
from our bodies
when all the fun
we can possibly muster
has been had and gone
my favorite part begins
crawling into our bed
tasting the salty sunshine
on your inked skin
tracing your new freckles
tasting summer on your lips
goodnight my love
