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Today's poem is by Amisha Patel

Yet

History is the moon with its lack of atmosphere,
the white land unmoving, only illuminated
by something else, seen and cherished by ones
it canít touch. Thatís what I meant,
yapping about too-small shoes for the
hoping thing Iíve become, not humble.
Holding the shoulder of a ghost who is a shadow
that I watch fall false under my fingers.
Not that Iím complaining and thatís a lie.
Iím too short for this, age-wise. My tongue
is still out of harmony with voice/meaning.
I donít mean what I say. Itís more of a stumble.
What I meant is this: that history is one thing
and my life is another. Whatís passed is what
lies stiff being stared at and seen and maybe,
just maybe, it wants to be changed. Without
that will, Iím lost here, despite what they say
about time-present and its exquisite opportunity.
There are things I need to understand.
Why the divine joke of my life is in repetition
and why the lesson hasnít been the murder of it.



Copyright © 2007 Amisha Patel All rights reserved
from Backwards City Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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