J. Alan Nelson
My daughter burns my memories
from the storage shed.
She tears and drops them
in a fire pit out back.
A boy runs from room to room.
He weeps
like a boy beaten into madness.
I just felt 1977 disappear.
Women, beer and whisky,
my move from the dorm
into my first apartment,
the parties,
all flame away
into shadows without form,
ashes sifting in fire.
I snuck 1976 out of the shed
when she was at the fire.
It fits neatly in my back pocket.
She burns 2001.
Some horror explodes from me.
Whatever it was,
it passes
as I move around a corner,
depart a strange city.
The pavement turns
to gravel, dirt.
I relax into infinity.
I pat my back pocket.
1976 is safe.
The boy runs to me.
He sobs.
Who are you? I ask.
Who are you? he asks.
We don't know. We don't know.