by Marge Piercy
It brushes my mind as if someoneís
long hair trailed across my flesh,
perhaps a lover long forgotten
circumstances vivid, face blurred.
I can almost grasp it, faintly
luminescent like a deep sea fish
flashing red in the blind darkness
where pressure would flatten me.
My mind is fading at the edges
Into sleep. Itís a voice not quite
heard from across the marsh saying
something you can half decipher.
Itís faded writing on a flood-washed
page, black ink now lavender.
A scent that tickles the back
of your nose as it dissipates.
Is this real memory or something
I read, some scene from a darkened
theater of my childhood with sticky
floors and gum stuck under seats?
Whatever it is I have lost it,
gone into the sinkhole of the night
swimming away like a blind fish
in a cave where silent rivers seep.
Copyright © 2008 by Marge Piercy.