Forgetfulness
–Vicki FeaverWhen my memory
was a film library
with a keen curatorwho knew precisely
where to find clips
of every wordI wished unsaid,
or deed undone,
to play back to meon sleepless nights,
I’d have welcomed her
muddling the reels.But now the curator’s
retired, the ordered
shelves are in chaos.I roam the racks
without a guide
searching for scenesI’ve lost. Sometimes,
unable to remember
what I’m searching for,I find Forgetfulness
kneeling on the floor –
an old woman, paleand worried as a ghost,
rummaging in a tangle
of shiny black ribbons.
Photo by Denise Jans on Unsplash