Memory #3
I had a memory
that was not real
but I think it was.
Always chasing up the stairs
the ones that scratch against bare knees,
leaving imprints of cracked walnuts.
Bursting into bedroom doors–
hanging off hinges,
begging for the security to be locked
in.
Sitting flat backed and pushing with the strength
of shaking knees.
This time, I wasn’t strong enough.
A bleeding arm dripping crimson -
leverage.
One push onto an unmade bed
and I fell
still falling
head thrashing
with flooded eyes
and a throat filled with salt water.
You stood for too long, deciding what to do.
I cast you on a black and white TV screen -
play with the dials until static skitters around your black silhouette.
Mute.
You’re far away now.
When I fall, I fall into a meadow of budding spring flowers
and sink into the soil.
