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 can’t touch. That’s what I meant,
yapping about too-small shoes for the
hoping thing I’ve become, not humble.
Holding the shoulder of a ghost who is a shadow
that I watch fall false under my fingers.
Not that I’m complaining and that’s a lie.
I’m too short for this, age-wise. My tongue
is still out of harmony with voice/meaning.
I don’t mean what I say. It’s more of a stumble.
What I meant is this: that history is one thing
and my life is another. What’s passed is what
lies stiff being stared at and seen and maybe,
just maybe, it wants to be changed. Without
that will, I’m 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 hasn’t been the murder of it.

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