History is Only Minimized
by the enlarging of time. Chokeberry trees,
pink bunnies, stars like vast, frosted pieces
of glass reflecting your stories as longing, as
a thief at the sight of an empress. My draped
edges were the vessels of your first revolutions,
then they stretched, ripped, escaped each other.
Here, prick me again. I have stored your every
breath, the first outcropping of unsettlement. See,
history is only minimized by the enlarging
of you. My wrinkly skin, my hours in the wooden cave,
the mornings when I was lost under barricades of
blankets--they slide thin. They wear out. Girl, you
have to boil down. Sometimes, I fear. I fear
to be the only one who sees the minimizing of history.
Do you recollect the youth you left in my oldness?
Do you long to stain your finger once more?
Do you know how to whisper “so long”?
