Pocket Poem #1: The Archive

These are the remains

of once resplendent fires,

the residues of a former life.

Lady Historian:

blow upon the cinders,

pare open the envelope

with your knife.

Sit still and listen.

Don’t fall for the compulsion to write:

Don’t fuss with your registrations,

your deadlines, your letters,

your punctuation,

the style of your type.

Just look at these lifeless things,

these papers you now touch.

Your fingers trace the serpentines

around the curves,

and through the loops

of early cryptic script.

Look at these inanimate things,

the words you whisper as they

unfold along these lines,

feel the shape

of their bygone sounds

as they mold around your lips.

Can you hear me breathing?

Can you feel the swell

beneath my breast?

Can you hear

the whistling of the wind

this cold winter’s night?

Can you see the flicker

of the candlelight,

its arc of yellow spanning across

the page’s upper right,

the eclipse of my right hand

casting a shadow

on the parchment’s opposite side?

Lady Historian:

when you do this, I feel alive.

Tell me,

Am I? Will you resurrect me?

Will you bear my Afterlife?