ON REMEMBERING
by Lex Cutamora
The last time I saw myself
was at the bottom of a cup
reflected in red porcelain,
and the last time I tried to remember,
I was peering through a hole,
a cut-out void.
The last time it was this quiet was at 3PM
siesta—— but unlike the dawn
there were no ghosts, only children
who are no longer children,
siblings whom you share marrow and bone,
born a year after the other during the
episode of when our parents loved each other
a little more.
Now, only a little less.
The universe stretches itself into black
and space takes away what it can,
so that by some principle, we are only left
with floating unknowns.
Angry at the weight of gas upon gas
the planets creak and continue to spin.
Us, too, in our own orbits move in motion
where time does not end and nothing is last.
Rotating
bearing the weight of people
upon people upon people.
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