Amnesia

Photo by Gaelle Marcel via Unsplash

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Beyond excited to have two of my poems come out in The American Journal of Poetry ! Thankful to Robert Nazarene and James Wilson for selecting this work to join that of numerous amazing poets. I’m truly grateful and my head hasn’t stopped spinning since last night, when Volume Six went live. What an incredible way to usher in the new year!

And even though the old year came and went with its roller coaster of emotions and experiences, I’m grateful to have lived through it the best I could, to have learned whatever mysterious wisdom it needed to teach me the best I could, and to have written a handful of poems that wouldn’t exist at all, hadn’t 2018 bestowed its mixed blessings upon me.

Most of all, I’m grateful that my family is healthy, that we’re all doing something we enjoy and are good at, that we love where we live and are lucky enough to travel to other wonderful places and reconnect with family and friends during the holidays. Whatever 2019 has in store for us, we’re ready to embrace it. We have one another to lean on when it gets tough. Also, our painfully-acquired wisdom tells us that there will surely be moments (perhaps even hours, or days, or–why not?– weeks!) of joy to light our path through the year. Happy 2019 to all, near and far!

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Amnesia

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1.

We’re alone on the brink
of this tabletop.
…………We rub air
between our palms, sweat
…………between our bellies.
……………………Our voices

drop like ripe fruit.

In the span of an evening, we lose
two former ideas and a half-
acquaintance.

You dine on fragments of scrolls
clinging to my skin.
………………………………..A second
coming of sorts. A baptism
…………by flaying.

2.

This is the history of grief.
I took it from the mouths
…………of children, stripped
its carcass of words,
…………swallowed it
……………………whole.

Perhaps the light could tell you.
It split at the seam, ripe
…………with exhaustion.

There’s so much you don’t
know yet.       How the blade
…………was a mere
……………………extension of my wrist.
How not even a hand,
…………had there been one,
could have staunched all that
……………………brackish fear.

3.

There’s a credible patch
of sun on the floor.
…………Its name is one
syllable.
…………So much depends on whose
……………………spring

we forget to administer
…………to the sick.

Another word for this
…………is fall. The ground
is uneven; our footprints
…………crumble
……………………between the cracks.

Fear particles waiting for meaning.

And now, we’ve forgotten
…………how to swim. Last night
the panic button glowed
……………………with the face
of a cherubic Lenin.

Today, it’s illegible,
…………like a pulse.

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First published in The American Journal of Poetry, Volume Six, January 1, 2019

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