The Primary Mechanics of Memory

A poem.

I search the library of my memory —

Sometimes manually,

By call numbers, sometimes digitally,

By online catalogues — quick.

How amazing it is that

Our central reserve bank

Can store and recall memories

That feels pre-memory to us, adults,

Pre-conscious, habitually prone

To infantile amnesia —

We know not the chronology

Of the events,

But can decipher the faces,

The places and the motives, better than

We can do for those of in a dream,

Although much more recent, like, last night.

Some memories are like misplaced books:

You can find them on the wrong shelves

Of the wrong section or under a couch.

Some memories are like a bucket fallen

In a deep well, floating lonely, lost,

Waiting to be rescued someday.

Some are like fool’s gold,

Iron pyrite with the pretence of amber —

You might think you have

Struck a gilt mine, only

To be deceived by the

Whims of fortune or geology.

Some are like the Crown Jewel, a diamond necklace,

A billionaire’s will, an industrial formula, a family secret

In an iron vault atop a slippery tower — guarded jealously

And seldom opened and shared.

Some, yet, are like

Curious fishes or squirrels or pigeons,

Prodding, adventuring, inquiring,

But running away at the slightest sight of danger.

Still, others are like Salamanders

Hiding within the layers of wet, rotten

Corrugated cardboards,

Plainly refusing to leave.

And the last kind

Is like a raging bull or a grizzly bear —

Angry, aggressive, huffing and puffing —

Charging straight at you: cornered, nowhere to hide or run,

Waiting for the inevitability of being gored or mauled,

In the form of haunting karma.

Halifax, 06.08.21