e.e. cummings lower case esque
not Forgotten but stowed away
i stand on the most pointed part of my toes
and reach upward, stretch myself until i am ten feet tall
and my shadow darkens the entire room
making the grey cat’s eyes glow green
like tiny wayward fireflies
i can just reach the box with my fingernails
and jump, bumping my face against the shelf
bringing the memories crashing down
braining myself with my lengthy past
and stowed-away passions
the photographs flutter downward
and the cat leaps after them like butterflies
gnawing at my image ten years ago
when i truly believed that i would become famous
and smiled in that knowledge
an eraser given to me by someone i thought i loved
ironic, come to think of it
the drawing that a stranger discarded
and i happily recovered from the trash bin
a thousand things floating from the tiny box
and lists, plans for my bright future ahead
now here, and so very dark
the faded, black and white photograph of my grandmother
seems to call me a failure
for being so lackadaisical to the importance of dreams
but, how could i forget my ambitions?
the first great love of any little girl
as aching as the new bruise on my forehead
as real as the cat playing with my memories
and barely reachable from the tip of my toes
and the painted nails on my long fingers
oh no, those wonderful thoughts,
they do not belong to the Forgotten
like those tiny, squared-in faces believe and express
but perhaps have been stowed away
just a little too long
copyright Amanda Martin 2009
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