Saturday, January 07, 2017

The Loss of Narrative

I have no mythology
to carry me
through the day.

The Lord Jesus Christ
is not my savior.
And neither
am I.

There are no epiphanies
in my past
that I can remember;
I can’t remember,
period.

My body tracks
the quickening slowness of time:
soft belly, receding hairline.

And the scars left behind
mark old battles –
appendicitis,
the flattened last knuckle
of my right hand,
a lost boxing match with my desk.

But my mind failingly grasps at all
but the tastes and smells,
the most vivid and primitive senses –
the taste of my grandmother’s coffee bread,
the smell of Ivory soap and cold water
at the sink behind her woodshed.

Even those have faded to facsimiles of memories –
I remember the remembering and not the thing
itself.

Images are a thing of the past,
faded snapshots at best.
Even the present disappears into a fog.

Perhaps it is the drugs I use to stay afloat,
perhaps it is the depression and anxiety they treat,
perhaps it is merely a product of age and genetics…

Whatever the reason,
I long for a season
of memory.

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