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AFTERIMAGE - A poem

Memory is at best a shattered glass,

the shards strewn across the floor, and

I have not the time nor patience to

fit and glue all the pieces together.

 

I know it's there, the memory I seek, and

eventually it rears its head like an index card in

the catalog of an ancient library

that holds no books.

 

I see faces but no names, strangers, and

I tick, tick, tick through the alphabet,

hoping to trigger and cement

a neural connection that sometimes comes.

 

I used to worry that the lapses

might lead to the end of me, but

whatever the state of my mind,

my imagination will create, through my pen,

 

all I need to know and believe.

What is truly real anyway?

I close my eyes, calm my restless heart, and

the image, recalled, comes into focus:

 

I see hair the color of the dark chocolate paste

under the outer shell of a walnut, and

feel ghostly tingling in my fingers as

fine threads of silk pass through them.

 

A mask of porcelain,

tinted by a sun

south of the border,

near flawless.

 

Eyebrows that come

together as one when

left to their own devices

of natural progression.

 

A mouth so perfect

it need not speak

to tell me everything

that is in the heart.

 

And eyes that lead me

to a place of comfort,

pigmented with hues of the

mountainsides of Montana,

 

reflecting the meaningful

along with the meaning,

flashing a sparkle, a glint of

light from the big bang,

 

reminding me of everyone

I have ever loved, and

that image will remain

with me forever.