Vox Populi
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Al Maginnes: The Book of Forgetting
By now she’s tired of stories
spotlighting her early deeds,
actions too endearing to be
plotted, or the years before
she came, blanks of time distant
as fires in the granite hills
west of us. Last week, a downturn
in the atmosphere brought smoke
drifting raw currents only made
visible by smoke’s motion.
It trespassed flatland streets and yards.
At bedtime, I whispered
her away from apocalypse
and bad dreams, promised
clear skies, knowing my blood
would pace sentry for hours
after neighbor lights went dead
and the shrouded moon
took its perch in the sky.
I know there is a book, more
than one, where the names
of dead towns and their citizens
line the white pages neat
as grave plots. We see
our place in that book once
when we are born, once more
when we die. So I can’t say
the fate of anyone, of those
facing the flames, whether
they weep or pray or howl
a fiddler’s laugh. That’s why
I tell my daughter stories
we both know the ending of,
so we can forget what truth
lies inside a book
neither of us will read.
Copyright 2018 Al Maginnes
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