A trance blooms over me, like a puff of basidial spores.
You’ll remember, he said, like applewood smoke
curling out of his clay-sculpted lips.
Definition takes over his mouth,
As red and defined as Vardaman’s crying.
But it was me who said it, internally
Hoping with ferocity that my preconceptions would still be true,
twenty years later. Hoping for memory;
Too fiercely? Tied in
to my third pair of ripped jeans,
never quite fitting.
We ache with desperate pleas and find trust rewarded
For the first time since September twentieth, nineteen ninety three.
Hope blooms, like cherry blossoms sailing
through the purple Washington sky.
But sometimes the air is too sweet, fleeting,
Shallow waves a buffer for thought.
Locked in sturdy arms and fleece sheets,
As we freeze our toes with heating pads
And singe our brains with radioactive waves.
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