Ode to the Lost Ones
Fortuneteller, riverwalker, omniscient in your own
stream. From your view, your life is not flow
but object; to hold must mean to forget.
Stygian, become in your own power anointed,
invincible as the age rages by. At times,
you migrate to your old body, a swallow
disembarked from a shooting star. Wondering
why that such a fury is, such that you can’t foretell.
Scintillating, titillating, abrading, mutating: past’s
a train loaded with the carry-on baggage of the last
fifty yous: your dented orange suitcase, worn-out LL Bean
backpacks, the rolling laptop briefcase you used,
pink lunchboxes with the matching cartoon
thermos. The past is a uni-directional impulse.
It should hurt; it should ignite recreating scars
on your childhood skin.
Others’ pasts don’t hurt you. A shadow
grows and slips out of your breast
Maria S. Picone has an MFA from Goddard College. She’s interested in hybrid and experimental forms as well as free verse. Her hobbies are learning languages, looking at cats on the internet, and painting. Her poetry appears in Mineral Lit Mag, Ariel Chart, and Eleventh Transmission: 45 Poems of Protest. Her Twitter is @mspicone, and her website is mariaspicone.com.