Grace McDonough

April 19, 2000 - Wichita, Kansas

memory's bitch

Memory is a sick lie
A joke
We choke on
Collectively

Memory is rose gold
Damp with mold
Stretched thin and wide

It fills me with hope
That the evil eye
Will not abide by human law

and let truth preside
Over memory
Its invertebrate spine

Clenches
Withholds
The pain growing mold

The rage that burned
Holes
In your favorite sweater

The silence that follows
Time not spent
Alone

Tastes like sour
black coffee
Left out

Old times
Are not the happy ones
They are all sprinkled

With a misery
That precedes
Your lie of a life.
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