Forgotten ...and who could speak of those days; the trees carving gray slashes into an indifferent sky, cat cowering on our back patio, the tic of my den clock  mocking me as I sat, fingering poems into the air? He never could tell me, you know, tell me that all I would have of him was a mist of breath on the bathroom mirror, the chance glimpse of a receding back, his best shirt flung to the floor,  still warm with his angry sweat. I walk out into the scent of Jasmine, dress dew-damp at the hemline, think, who can know of that kind of death that ambushes us while still living, or how long one can endure chaste limbs blackening and tumbling off for the wolves to carry away as bounty. My laughter once rang like fine church bells, but his shadow has pressed me flat. I've forgotten my name, my mother's name, the town of my birth, the face of my first lover, the color of my father's hair. I've forgotten it all. Every single  bit of it. Pris Campbell ©2005 Published in MEAT, 2006, S.A. Griffin, editor   S.A. Griffin is co-editor of The Outlaw Bible   For American Poetry and an excellent poet! Return to Poetry Index II Return to Homepage