velvet purses of poetic rhyme.
They stitched meter with tongues of fire,
stories growing on their breath in
a vapor of song.
Carl Jung--now unsurfaced--
said memories from our collective
unconscious rise to the honeyed surface
of our sleep. Myths stick to our subconscious
like stamps stuck to a postcard
a postcard with crisp cursive saying,
Don't forget what you've suppressed.
We--now past the Modern puzzle--
think memories are saved by
our senses, stored on our FB walls,
secured by our aspiration that
pharmaceuticals and servers
will never go wrong.
And so, I write myself a poem,
a poem for each dream and each memory,
for every crinkled note crammed
in the honeycomb of my mind,
I smooth them out one at a time
and squint at their illegible scrawls--
each story about how we've all loved
different things, and each story
about how we have loved.