I thought the worst the gods
could devise was memory itself—
the way it floods the estuaries
of a waking mind, drawn across
fresh water of a new day
by the drag of guilt, a moon
of regret. Mother, I would have carried
you from the burning city also
had you settled for a human fate.
Why won’t you let me forget
the stench of brave flesh after
the tearing by beak or hound,
the woman whose face and hips
still press me in dreams,
friends gone without cry
in the sudden clutch of waves?
Let me forget, let me
push the future ahead
in the labor of each blank day,
and if this founds a city
or brings my boy to stand
on firmer ground than heaving waves,
so be it. I will work
for destiny if you walk
behind me, cutting away
the last stone of my steps.
Instead today you lead me
to believe I am entering a temple
of this strange town, but
on its walls you paint
my own past, scenes
as familiar as the smell
of my body sweating.
I walk sideways down the long hall,
a crab, eyes blinking the water
as if sleet whipped them,
but how can I turn away
when gates, towers, trees of my childhood,
closets, swords, twisting stairs,
and cobbles are trapped in gesso.
See how Creusa clenches one last time
to heave the wide head down and out,
how Ascanias struggles
to find his first breath.
But how can I trust these works
of art? In every panel I search
but never see myself. That portion
of my eye is burned as if I gazed
too long at the sun. I strain
to assemble the figure who is me,
but all I see is the blur
of browridge, a body shape I wear
closer than a jut of helmet,
plume that dangles over the visor.
Where am I, Mother?
How can I ever know the torment
of history you say I must accept
if you are always shifting your shape
and never let me see my own?
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