Today just today
is a forgiveness exercise. I try to live as though
yesterday has no hold on me. A roaring in my ears
rises in volume
as I sit quietly in a room or back the car out of a lot.
I ask God to help me do this.
I cut open an envelope of sesame seeds.
Flour, an egg, and water.
——-I bake shaobing with salt over flames.
I cannot live in a fireplace always burning. Ash to ash.
———————–I eat shaobing like communion,
with eyes closed, a sacramental union.
After washing my hands, I walk around the corner.
Yesterday is a once-worn wedding dress at the dry cleaner’s
no one claims. After a month, the store owner
seals the dress chiffon and satin and lace
in a keepsake box to display in the window.
One day not this afternoon I shall walk past this box
without batting an eye. Whose wedding was it?
So long ago, I cannot remember.
Was this mine in another life? Will I take a pair
of shears and cut it to shreds as a work of art—
memory’s textile as a living sculpture?
——————————–Sin by sin, we confess
——————————-our flotsam and jetsam. Yesterday’s hurts.
The shearing, that is.
Not the dress.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.