It has stuck with me through today. I thought of those ghosts all day today.
Momentum 9
In the dark dormitory designed
With plywood in mind and bare
Bulbs, I can feel the ghosts. They
Are the withered walking dead
Tired. Their mattresses cling
To their shapes like the wild
Mother to stillborn baby-in-arms.
She could die if she doesn’t let it go.
Or we could be the ghosts.
Strolling through their lives,
Their impressions neatly
Pressed into their mattress
As they hide under the frame
And try not to breath.
They could die if they don’t let it go.
In the end, when I leave the room
Breathing again. I am holding
A wall. A railing. Anything
To make the earth still again
And rotate back to now. Tangled
In extension cords, I feel tethered:
I could die if I don’t let it all go.
This is still, but it is a propeller
In the world of museums and art,
Chopping bits of past and making
You taste them, the dust of their
Weary years gone by.
Most of us
Choked. Most of us
Lived. Except those
Who could not
swallow. Except those
Who couldn’t let it go. They could.
Have. If. Did.
No comments:
Post a Comment