Out of the Blue
Out of the blue, I hear your rustling in the back
of my frontal lobe among the cellular boxes,
caved-in and heavy with sediment.
When I pull the yellowed, frail strings
leading to you, covers are nudged open
and you appear.
Forty years have worn down your features like
pebbles in a stream; past passions are now
but faint, electrical pulses, barely registering.
But, in this commotion, a crumpled neuron nearby
opens releasing apparitions of you and me standing
over a spot in our favorite park,
searching for the golden snake ring I had thrown
into some bushes after a jealous fit over a once-
sharp reason, now too pointless to recall.
But it is not really you and me; it is aged molecules
that oscillate into a semblance of our shapes
and then shift back to forgetfulness.
As quickly as these stirrings of recollection had come
to life, they fade; the dust of the past settles
back down, like lazy snow.
I will hold on to your shadow
but you, you are now forty
About the Author: Mike Acker lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. He has lived in various parts of the world; his early education was in German and French. While living in California, he worked as a professional translator. Mike enjoys writing short poetry, especially with the intent of exploring the possibilities latent in a single image.
Image Credit: “Two Men on Banks of Stream” By Arthur Brown (1878) Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program
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