I’ve heard memories change each time you recall them,
as if each is a set of two facing mirrors where both panes
have sprinkled in artistic license. It reminds me a bit of history,
each present’s prejudice sprinkled onto the canvas of the past,
the tellings and its inflections becoming part of the story:
we’re a microcosm of the world, lakes imitating the behavior of seas.
The only thing safe from time is on the page, sure, it will be read
by a different me, one, momentarily not as dead.
We strangers share a kind of spliced telephone line,
I can hear the past but speak to the future,
so I journal and craft poetry and prose for a stranger,
she knows my trivia, the lines of my bucket list,
what old adventures felt like the moment I lived in their sunlight,
the best lines of my closest friends as they said them,
things that to this day I wish that I could say,
an indeterminable feeling I needed three hundred pages to explain.
Altogether, I guess you have the sum of me, best as I can
define it for myself: the whole changing with every new face in that ascending
set of reflections, the parts trapped in amber, preserved in golden glow.