The Language Of Memorabilia: A Poem

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At some point you need to say yes to the past.

Yes, that’s its face, that’s its language, that’s its behaviour.

We made it together, it was a thing of beauty and an ugly thing

Always in transformation, in regression, digression,

Growing multiple heads, twisted in too many directions,

We were always armed with negligence and a lack of intimacy,

A desire to move, forward, away, in resentment and frustration.

Looking at faces, thinking about the possibility of love

Touching bodies rejecting dreams that were not ours

That tasted wrong on our tongues, cold on our skin

Hot on theirs, hot in their minds,

And we ran so far away, in our gown of shadows and chains,

Trying to shed what had not been ripe yet,

Having seen where it would go, where it would all go wrong

And we couldn’t escape, we would be hurt,

We were made to revolt and close our eyes and think of better days

Not look into the eyes of those who inflict pain

Not focus on our own hands that dragged memorabilia

Through the mud that people would never find again

When they grow old and nostalgic

Looking for hideous dissolved and aching rays of light

And refine the goodness, that minuscule particle

That might have given them hope

When life could still be saved.

Photo by Masha Raymers on Pexels.com

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