the river whose name begins with L

The name of the author is a first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never heard of.*

It's harder than it looks, unlearning all you know. So much wants to resist the vanishing away. You slam the door and turn the lock. You coax, cajole, make promises you don't intend to keep. You dig in gardens where hortensia bloom. You cut your hair and change your name.

And still it's not enough. Remains remain. You're tangled by the knots they leave behind. Air's far too thin to hold them all and at the burnt out house, bricks show exactly where the chimney was. You wave the wand over the box -- abracadabra! -- but, inside, a pink nose twitches, pink eyes stare.

It takes a blank determination, takes tools -- a shovel and a gun. It can be done. I've covered them up, blotted them out, watched them sink in mirrored rivers, left them shivering by the side of the road. I've spent long nights in an empty house, walking from room to room. I can't sleep til I've turned out all the lights.


*Read the rest of this poem here.