Because you understand connections
and circuitry
and closure,
I begged you to repair my circle today.
In a darkening kitchen that never saw my childhood,
I asked about my ancestors,
but you were more interested
in the leaky sink.
“Why do I dream
of heart-beat chants,
and fleurs des lis,
and buggies trotting by?”
You answered:
“Seven drops of water
have dripped from the faucet.”
Why do I envision
black-eyed spirits sobbing snowflakes,
and ancient chateaux suckling streams,
and shoo-fly pies swilling molasses?
“Eighteen drops
have fallen already.”
The light in the kitchen was growing dimmer.
The light in you eyes had faded long ago.
I pleaded for an answer:
“Who am I?
What ghosts have borne me?”
“Twenty-four drops,
gotta fix that damn faucet.”
I cried as my circle
crumbled, neglected,
as my past disappeared
down the drain.
Thank you.
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Wonderful imagery.
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