Lace in Four Parts
I.
Sitting near the fountains, I’m in the fog.
Droplets vibrate frantically on the water.
Droplets like little white swans.
They fight against the waves that are muted, blue and calm.
Little white swans who struggle in their vast splashing circles,
battling the deep which they must once again join.
I can’t tell if the swans are struggling to get up or
determined to stay down.
Frenetic,
like my memories,
screaming to get out.
II.
Kids near the edge of the fountains throw seaweed.
They pile gunk up in their hands and play.
Young hands never know what they should and shouldn’t touch.
My mind is on facts inside me that once were stark white,
but not like the fountain splashes at all. Like tranquil swans.
Swans that were meant to be simple and float, and didn’t I, didn’t I
stir them up? Isn’t it my fault I’m feeling so damn confused?
III.
The facts go further than being swans.
The facts go as far as being lace. Lace.
Like lace. Intricate, detailed, pure white lace.
Like lace cutting off my long legs.
Like the lace he lifted up.
Six years put dust on it all.
The lace in my mind is yellowed.
IV.
The kids are gone.
Their algae pile
looks like a green witch
tending to her cauldron.
She ensnares me with words.
“When it comes to remembering,
fair is foul and foul is fair.
Hover through the fog
And the filthy air.”
And I swear
on my yellowed lace memories
that algae pile winked at me.
Suddenly,
I know the swans are struggling to get up.