False Memory

 

We’re too damaged to go back now, left a little too far

open, lost moons, the open box-cutters

with a blade that shines like glass

against your hair, your eyes, the feeling of blade

to skin. Watching you, this is how a river feels—

too cool, too fast, a stampede of horses. We can only

stand by and watch them wade in, knee-deep, and then

chest-buried, before the current takes them. The last thing we see

are the flickers of white in their eyes, a flash

of their teeth. Of course, none of this really happens, but

you feel it anyway. You grieve for them

and want to go out to adopt a colt. You want to go out

and plant something green. You want to apply

moisturizer to the memory of cuts, as if there ever

really had been any. Sometimes, you wish

there had been, so you could feel something else, feel

something a little out-of-control, a little bloody.

You close your eyes and see ribbons of skin, spinning

like ribbon dancers, in every direction, a hall of mirrors.

This may be as real to you as death will ever be, and so

you take it all in, opening every window, hearing

every crash from the city.

 

 

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