Thursday, March 3
MEMENTO MORI
Why trust this world—
this one here with just two peaches
and the watch leaning on its side
and the flashlight showing like an x-ray my bones
and the shale split into pieces like it never belonged together
and the drum of the boy's hand against his body
and the coals still warm from last night's fire
and no birds in the birdhouse
and the arms of the trees stretching upwards
and the match held, the tiny flame crawling,
and the boat inside my body filled with useless debris,
the boat upending and turning face down,
and the words carved into my wedding ring faded
and the wanting what can't be had
and the tick on my son's neck that won't let go
and the worms inside his body, open field his body is,
and the door that gives and the door that takes away
and last night's fortune, nothing is beyond all repair,
and the mother in me all tied up in a fine white line,
line we burn the edges of to keep from unraveling,
and the tiny narrative for tying knots
and the child I thought I might once again carry
and grief, the sheen we bring to wood
when with repetitive gestures we polish the raw thing.
(Catherine Barnett)