We don’t remember light. We remember
the dark. The cruelties; the misgivings.
We remember winter and fistfuls
of ice, like cold salt tossed in a face
with contempt, a form of shunning, bitter
the gesture; the censure of wind and snow.
Recalling the sun, we remember an anvil
and a dome that’s a judgment, a compress
of fire, removing old people as if they were weeds
taken from lawns, pulled with a yank,
and removed with no chance for appeal.
And we recall drought. Fields that won’t grow.
Every so often, we’ve a scarcely-there memory
of light, a balm soothing our skin,
and desire in a smile we’d forgotten we had,
and the way cats wake up to a passion of birds.
Now and again, we feel it once more, and see
sunlight, the silk sheet we’ve longed for,
cooler than rain-washed air, warmer than buttered toast,
the light a discovery: Life’s pretty damn good
when we forget what we choose to remember.
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