by Ed Higgins
Yes, I can imagine it now
how we could each disappear completely
connected only through memory's fault lines,
subduction zones all our own,
lie-protected over time's distance
surfaces sliding under recollection
as overlaying sediments accumulate
transform into anthracite
or other hardened evidence
under pressure of ages ago.
Remembering, itself long since fading
at some lost premise:
We once sang so goofily out of tune
we may actually have laughed out loud.
Uncertain too are favored wines:
zindfandel, chardonnay, oaky pinots
we declared made just for us--
Little suspecting some later taste
like treachery, say, calculated
or maybe only through regret
while staring into one another's eyes.
So somewhere now in middle-age
uneven embarrassment draws me back
to where memory no longer techtonically shears
along fault lines long past each other.
Whole continents have drifted slowly
to their present locations
built up and worn away,
tracing rifts in the crust still.
All rights reserved.
Currently in These Fragile Lilacs Poetry Journal, Vol. II, Issue II, Spring 2017, p. 12