Chasing Memory
JS Nahani
It’s thin, the line, between death and birth,
chaos and calm, then now, after before.
These bodies hold what is, what was
ground in, search for what will be, dangling
fingerprints embossed five months
before our births. Moments happen,
the unknown becomes known
until we leave it, lose it,
on the edge of time, and place
find ourselves
vanishing, caught
by our own reflection.
We bury truths, dig, leave the dirt, the shovel,
run full speed ahead, come back, pick up pieces
ask around—has anybody seen my shovel?
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