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

open

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 

shatter

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.