Monday 13 August 2018

I've childhood recollections

I've childhood recollections
that stick like paint
to my brain-flesh.

That first instance I dropped a plate
sticks hard
—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,
supposedly alone
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
makes sense
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.

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