Mar 15th 2010 09:36 pm Five Dense Minutes
2:58 am: My feet are almost as calloused as your hands always were. These hands are virginal apparati with a texture similar to that of honey or warmed dough. Virtually unmarred and scrape-free. Clearly, they do not make nearly enough.
3:02 am: My head is buried in my pillow now and I’m thinking this can’t be healthy- being reminded of your life by the faintest sound of music that you never even got the chance to hear. I’m wondering if I’m sick for never wanting to forget; for fearing Alzheimer’s at age seventy more than Death at age thirty, for wishing for any physiological malfunction over amnesia. I’d like to always be able to recall the inflection of your voice when you would ask what it was I had learned in school that day. At twelve, it posed as a hideous question. But at twenty, not so much.
“What did you learn in school today?” Now, that’s a poem.
(Sarah Martin contributed this.)
Posted by admin / Poetry and Sarah Martin