What We Remember, What We Forget
BY ANTHONY FRAME
We’re on our knees, prying off a baseboard,
searching for an ant’s nest. You’re talking, Deer,
I’m trying to keep up. I catch something about
structural lines and the benefits of chemical dusts.
The sun breaks through clouds and windows,
baking our necks. The wind dies as it hits
the wall of trees surrounding this house.
I could teach you how to deconstruct
this gated community, about the poverty
of the third-world children who made our uniforms.
I could tell you that when we were young,
I cheated every time we played Monopoly.
I’m waiting for rain that doesn’t want to come,
for all the green leaves to turn brown and
let go of their branches. You could explain
the best method to head-butt a soccer ball,
describe the weekend you went to Cleveland
for the jazz festival. You could tell me about
your murdered friend, the mortician’s work
wasted by the closed casket. You’re waiting
but I don’t know what for, maybe a hint
of sand to point the way. What can we say,
on the floor of this million dollar house,
to make our two blue worlds seem less strange?