that stick like paint
to my brain-flesh.
That first instance I dropped a plate
—the world cracked
as porcelain hit the ground.
I once smashed my head
and the scar still lives
with the bathroom memory of a blood shower
pouring forth like raspberry cordial.
Then there were the robins in our shed
—that flittered, that settled to nest—
as we drove away to euthanize the dog.
There’s the giant Ferris wheel
and me atop the world in a carriage to myself.
But why myself?
Mum, dad or someone of age
was surely with me
yet the memory has me on my own
—a grey sky,
a carnival below existing like a thought-dream.
There I am,
a small child atop a monster Ferris wheel,
though this can’t have been possible.
It’s a fake memory
and a favourite of mine
and it’s telling me something
but I’m unsure what.
The memories of the smashed plate
and bloodied forehead
tell me that things, ideals, perspectives
but life goes on
in any case.
The memory of our doomed Alsatian
with the memory of the nesting robins.
But why am I alone atop that Ferris wheel?
—The grey sky, the carnival below.
Why the false recollection?
I’ve no idea
and feel no need to understand.
Some things make sense regardless.