Fragments of Memory, a poem


Writing About What is Not There

If you tell, I’ll kill you, some remember.
Others, the creak of the stairs
some, less than that.
The importance of fog.
Where it is dense, things live
that must not be known
on penalty of losing everything.
Their reality my reality.
If they said forget it
who would be my Oprah
put the microphone in my face?
To keep family, I had to break
my reality
into fragments
hide the pieces
under the closet door
at the end of the hallway.
How could I face them in the mornings
eat my corn flakes and milk
if I recalled the nights?
How could I receive the love
that was given
sure as the whiskers
growing on his face,
the tiredness in her eyes
if I remembered?

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