Bad Memory

Bad Memory

by Gideon Burton

Forgiven, like the scab of closing weeks

already healing over months of heat

and anger, time digesting trim and neat

the vinegars we tongue with what we seek.

I have a story and its little threads

unravel every telling just as though

the gyroscope of fictions hadn’t set

the terms sufficiently. And though I bet

against myself the thickly kneaded dough

of memory supposes all is dead

that isn’t present, tea leaves steeped in blood

and hatred swilling in a local Thames

some tributary of my lost amens

alive to drying ruts along the mud.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Silent Enigma[w.a.c.]