I traced my finger
down along the spine
of an old lover.
Memory came
and drew it all back
in black
and white,
like a silent film.
Dancing the Charleston,
burning the Hindenburg.
VE-Day.
Nostalgic.
Some of these aren’t mine,
I’m sure of it,
but this visual age
has built my memory palace
and thus,
parts of it exists in this world,
and some
in another.
Scratch the surface
and the water pours in,
bringing buoyancy and balance.
Breach the containment
and things start to get out,
first a finger,
then a whole hand.
Then what’s next?
Head and shoulders,
knees and toes
and an attitude?
What am I supposed to do with that?
What a silly thing;
to dig the mind in,
mining for diamonds,
memories
that aren’t mine.
Past life intrudes on present time.
If that’s the case
then my present life
could intrude on future ones.
Now I’m confused
and in proper Canadian fashion;
sorry
and writing this apology
to my future incarnation.
“Sorry Bro,
hope the next one’s better.”
I guess this one’s been pretty good;
maybe too good.
Karma is a real bitch, I hear
and I could be dooming Future Me
to the life of a Mudskipper;
dragging my unevolved body
through the muck and mud
and shit
of tomorrow’s world.
Maybe that’s not so bad?
I’m not about to do worse.
So sorry, Mudskipper Me,
you’re better off that way.
Reincarnation is confusing.
Best leave it to chance
and let my fingers
trace my past
in safe recollection.
HG -2018
