Sunday, March 14, 2010

And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters with no pearls. -- Counting Crows


There were times I’ve attempted to displace
Tired memories for new by taking a letter
And hiding it with clutter inside a drawer

That was not mine. Once, they held some
Of Lola's trinkets: perfume, mirrors, yellowed prayer
Books and scapulars, softened photographs of
Post war Philippines. I thought of age and how many

Instances I would try to gather the memories inside yet
Misplace. Victor, she said, was the only man she had
Loved. We can never be sure what of the other men
That may have drifted some place with wives and children.

How they must have adored her dark curls with
Haranas and Dahlias as her father warned them
That it was late. But we’ve stayed up much much later,
Wakeful, restless, and wanting perhaps more

From others. We’ve no need for new compartments.
I’ve never seen it happening. It is morning and I am
Glad, by now I’ve ceased to notice their absence.

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