The Indexical Trace
Nostalgia is poison, but
It doesn't mean what it did
Maybe that's why they say
You can never go back
A right turn on red
A message left unread
The grey interstices between
Sign, signifier, and signified
The indexical trace
Of the presence of another
Footsteps overhead on a creaky floor
The light on under the door
An errant thread
From a piece of clothing
On a towel of another color
The most comforting sign of home
Like a Totem
A distant point of light
Filling your hopeless quota
With memories you had forgotten
And habits you didn’t know you had.
A search party for a souvenir;
A gang from a faraway street
Running you in from outside,
Your wheels wound with worry.
A room so quiet you could hear the walls itch;
A song stuck in your head like mud;
A girl staring at you with eyes so dark
They could swallow you whole.
Startled by your arrival
She hides her idols in a dollhouse,
A rival altar in miniature
Inside a room next to the room.
You knew you wouldn’t wake up
Before all your ghosts had gathered
On the corner of your quilt
Gripped tight like a totem.
The Saddest Thing
I thought I had seen
The saddest thing when
I saw a dead duck
On the sidewalk
Her neck a broken question mark
Asking
I thought I had seen
The saddest thing when
I saw a drowned cow
Sunk in the shallows
Her body a sack of meat and mud
Drinking
I thought I had seen
The saddest thing, then
Mimi Parker died
Dark curls gone limp
Her voice still up on a note
Singing