Thursday, October 17, 2013

Bad Memory

bad memory

the fall morning sun
burns away the foggy mists of bad memory--
I mean, of course,
the home run I gave up
in the bottom of the 6th, 
the last summer of baseball,
my little brother losing his faith
standing in right field watching it fly out
of that beat up old park
in Mercedes,
and, also, 
the girl, thirty years later,
who called at 3 A.M. across the ocean
and knocked me out again.

maybe the morning sun just works on fog and skin,
and only poetry works on memories, 
though burning up or away may not be 
in its power. 
poetry works on memory like a ruminant works on 
its regurgitated bolus,
like a pitcher roughs up a ball to make sure he gets a grip, 
like partners work on the same problems over and over and over
because it's a thing they know to do,
trying,again, to fix their tender abdomens, 
unable to admit that the empty-gutted feelings they talked about for all those years 
were not, in fact, metaphorical, 
that after chewing each other up and out,
and handling love so roughly for so long,
it was useless to bring it up again,
the space was occupied by nothing but an abscess anymore,
there was nothing left to do now but watch the dirty bastard
circling the bases
and figure out what to say to your brother.

 

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