On the train back to the old place
unsure if any memory is left there
Surely there must be
an old cigarette burn hissing
embers fusing with the darkness
a cracking bone echoing
like a stapler under
the father’s fist
Yet there aren’t any
even the scars
have stopped itching
so there must be little left
there to hurt, or even faze
Life then was unquiet and
demanded a constant vigil
drier than sunbleached grass
colder than any Arctic blast
storms known to claim lives
Life, now, is a different kind of unquiet
seeking peace like one parched an oasis
Yes, there are dark memories
there in the old place
but they do not — cannot —
open old wounds
these simply do not exist anymore
the scars visible only when
the skin is tightened or
under a magnifying glass
or tanned, gorged on sun, or
rippling under a lover’s touch.
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