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.


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