I sometimes like to visit my mind
where it lives now,
talk with it in that dim-lit room
with the detritus of generations.
We speak of many things both trivial and grand.
I ask it where my French has gone, and such.
It’s a quiet chat—
we sense the time for urgency has passed.
We both have watched it go,
first deceptively slow, then
with the speed of a clock gone mad.
All these artifacts—names
of people no longer here, books
read and forgotten, every address,
the memory of where the crib once stood,
how the tiny cheek smelled of peaches—
Yet turning them over between us
makes a pleasant occupation,
whiling away the dwindling hours,
caressing the irrelevant.
Women Writers, June 2009