I remember the memories
But I do not remember the time
In and of itself
I recall that which awoken
Within my stricken childhood
Not what awoken it
And when the brook
That lies beside Celeste’s house
Roared after the rain
It was the waters that healed
Not the tears invoked
Nor lies told
When no rain Graced us
The brook was shallow
Like a reflection from a mirror
It still looked back at me
It showed me a sallow face
And a confused expression
And perhaps some cousins beside
Its banks held no sand
Only rocks and crags,
Pebbles and branches
The neighbors whizzed by
On their two-wheeled chariots
Singing to their pagan gods
We looked on
Our side-locks swishing in the air
Jealously? Perhaps.
But do I really remember?
Anything other than the memory
That came afterward?
Do I remember the Glicks
In their house at the back?
The jealous Butmans
Who just wanted cable of their own?
The Brawers, Sun-kissed
Like their brown abode
Or my grandparents
Regal in the summer winds
The Mochkins came later,
The Silbersteins too,
The Denburgs never came
And the Rubins did not exist
But now that time has rendered
My fragile memories
Calcified them in place on the shelf
Abounding them now in lessons
Cataloguing by color
Dewey in his domain of decimels
Dreaming of being demanded of
But in this order
One thing stands out above
Like a totem pole of defiance
A mile-marker in a police report
:
I do not trust these memories
For they are old
And I no more feel like
The boy who lived them
I do not have faith in my recollection
For it is tainted by iniquity, fear
And I am not defined by this
And not swayed by that
Instead I’m like the man
Looking upon his terrarium
Only knowing its age
By the sharpie scribbled on its cork
In wonder of the life inside
He does not remember placing
In awe of the green
That found a will to live and thrive
Like a Mochkin at his aquarium glass
I remember each fish
Remember when I replaced each
When it’s forebear absconded
But curiously, I have used many names
In this poem of mine
Many but my own
For I feel as if a visitor
Clutching his “Admit One”
Inside my arboretum of memories
Navigating the labyrinth of discovery
I ask myself:
Am I refusing to take ownership?
Not allowed backstage?
Or just fearful of confronting
The truths I hide