Etching Memories

An old wooden chair, rocking under
the power of a thousand dead grandmother’s kisses

dying incandescent lights flickering, yearning to grow solid, flowing as a raging river

becoming more than a concept,
more than a sensation, sticking to the ribs of a child’s memory

creaking out from closet doors
cool breaths leaking from old cedar chests, pricking neck hairs

etching haunted memories in
the soft impressionable clay
of a cool fall night.

Advertisement

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s