The Memory Keeper

Proem:
  
All that I do not understand pains me. Many voices in the mitote, I do not know. Then, I remember.    
   
Reach my fingers, lift my face to the sky. I remember to touch the light.  
   
I:  
The Fallen Towers,  
   
Somewhere  
My brother  
Is there  
Ensconced  
On a shelf  
   
There’s nothing left but  
Cold  
Ash  
I remember the  
Warm  
Hand  
I held  
As he lay  
Unconscious  
For days  
   
I went around  
Midnight  
Each night  
Unwelcome  
To visit  
In the  
Daylight  
   
He asked for me  
When he woke  
I was told  
About a year  
After  
   
Unwelcome to  
Attend the  
Memorial  
I hold a  
Photograph  
Taken  
Ten feet and  
Twenty years  
From where  
I stand  
An ever present beer in his  
Hand  
He is smiling with  
Vitality  
And that is how  
I choose  
To keep him  
   
Sky full of purple black clouds across the western horizon. Pillars of light streaming down midway from the obscured sun. Fingers of lightning rake the sky in brilliant, jagged lines. Thunder grumbles with the low throated displeasure of a predatory animal.  
   
I stride across weeks like pavement cracks  
   
..  
   
II:  
The Secret Window,  
   
A woven snare  
Of poetic  
Sentiments  
Arced in the  
Air  
Over me  
To capture my  
Unwitting  
Eye  
In scintillating color  
To sneer at me  
For getting lost in  
Its beauty  
In a harsh  
Cruel  
World  
For being so naive  
As to appreciate  
Livid with  
Remembered  
Joys  
Shared  
Sorrows  
Pain  
And love  
   
A raindrop stalactite  
At the tip of my finger is  
A chalice of light  
I  
Pause  
Lift, gently  
To my  
Lips  
And sip  
   
Waves rush to  
Crush  
Their backs  
Against the  
Shore  
And me  
Small  
Delicate and  
Finite  
As I am  
   
I want to fucking die  
Every day  
To be born  
Naked  
Shivering  
Raw  
And new  
   
In a pillar of  
Burning  
Screaming  
Ruin  
I rise  
To dash upon  
The rocks  
Again  
I fucking live for it  
   
Silent lightning on every horizon, briefly illuminating cloud banks. Silhouettes of titanic shoulders in the heavens. Silhouettes of homeless loiter against buildings. A rumor of smoke hangs in the air. Scant, fat raindrops hit me as if targeted.  
   
..  
   
III:  
The Hand Span of Hours,  
   
The word is magic  
Here, it lies  
In this breast  
It is power  
It hides its bright face  
Behind  
Its somnolent face  
Rotating upon its own  
Slightly askew  
Axis  
Within the annals of the  
Leaning tower of Babel  
Where spring  
Holds its  
Eager  
Breath  
   
Curled within  
Sepia  
Papyrus  
A memory of  
Summer  
Scrawled  
Within an autumn  
Leaf  
Arboreal  
Bare limbs  
Delineate  
A schema of  
Winter  
Against the  
Sky  
They are each  
Bound  
One  
To another  
   
The glint of ten thousand suns is recalled in an instant as I inch slowly through congested traffic. Sun visor lowered, peering into the faces of motorists, similarly ensnared in the crawl. I can taste the needs of others as their sweat beads on their skin. Their pores are eyes. Their mouths are fingers.  
   
Hours later, an unexpected text from an old lover, and shared moonlight dances through strands of her hair, floating freely before my eyes, as this treasured memory.  
   
Our quaking fingers reach for each other  
Shaped with the hope of  
Puzzle pieces  
   
Tonight, before you leave  
My life  
Try to find the  
Softness  
In you  
   
Afterwards,  
Dreams come screaming astride a dark horse  
   
..  
   
IV:  
The Memory Keeper,  
   
I heard  
Solemn pride in his  
Muffled voice through  
The door  
As he phoned  
Someone  
To say that I  
Had not  
Cried  
Until he’d left  
The room  
   
I still make eggs  
The way he did  
After that  
Righteous  
Beating  
I remember  
Sitting  
In the kitchen  
Across from  
Him  
My father  
   
My child’s thin  
Frame  
Wracked  
With pain  
My child’s thin  
Skin  
Livid  
With flame  
   
Over easy  
Lots of  
Pepper  
Ketchup and  
Tabasco  
   
When he returned from  
The war  
It wasn’t until after  
Three bottles hit  
The floor  
And the moon was  
Swinging across  
Bruised morning sky  
And his fingers  
Fly  
Across the chords  
To embrace my  
Voice  
That I stood  
Strode across the  
Gulf in the  
Room  
To him  
And kissed his  
Forehead  
My brother  
   
And for a long  
Moment  
We stood  
Like that  
And the tenor  
Of the love  
Which  
Burned in my  
Breast  
Was like  
A father’s  
Relief  
   
..  
   
Coda:  
   
Sometimes, all that I do not understand pains me. Sometimes, only. Words erect or prostrate upon a page, dependent on their quality, upon my own. Many voices in the mitote, all speak, all fall silent. I feel the gulfs between us, keen as the arching webwork of electromagnetism, its phantom fingers, binds us, one to another. I do not know you, I feel you.  
   
Between trembling digits, the unraveling thread of memory. I raise my fingers, face to the sky. I remember to be still and touch the light. Close my eyes. Feel the corona surrounding, a bombardment of infinite compassion, a vortex of warmth, gentle encircling arms, encroaching, from all sides.  
   
May your ghost whisper of every experience  
And recall with gladness  
   
..  
   
The Memory Keeper  
By  
Daniel Christensen