Poetry and Poetics
I was born into a
that did not know the meaning
of its name and was embarrassed
to admit the frailest bits
of its own mysterious humanity.
They could close ranks
around a secret so tightly,
all the thing could do was fester
like a wound never given a chance
to heal in the open air.
Rumors grew around such wounds
like mold on old bread.
Sometimes they became more
interesting than the facts
themselves. We were told
not to notice and were not permitted
to discuss it even among ourselves.
Soon everything appeared white
and as evasive as freshly fallen snow.
Everything was lovely and untrue.
So, when the snow finally melted,
we were left with landscapes
we did not recognize as our own.
Our history became a stranger
who could not remember our names.
© by Fredrick Zydek
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