We don’t live in the light

only to forget everything;
neither do we lie in the dark
just to barter these days
of bee hum and wheatgrass

for a mouthful of seeds.
When the days are long like this,
the heart casts a longer shadow;
the future swings like a bell
or flaps like a shirt or shroud

drying to a certain shape
on the line. I count out
the hard clicking of abacus
beads to clear more space;
but the hours hurtle toward

their edge. Am I supposed
to become that woman then,
crazed by the blinding silence
of snow, seduced by the river’s
mystery under ice? When I keen

into the wind, door hinges rattle
as if possessed. I won’t quiet them.
Once I was a body that housed
other bodies. I was expected
only to give, not to take.

 

In response to Via Negativa: The forgetting of things past.

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