Histories and Memories

I called Brenda again. The phone rang for what seemed like the length
of a school day. A crucifix was afixed in the space above me and it caught
my gaze. I had been looking into the kitchen where I saw the remnants
of meal preparation: bits of chopped onion that looked like derailed train cars
or bits of snow, the fleshy chunks of just cut tomatoes with spurted juice
like blood all over the wooden cutting board or perhaps smears of a rich sunset.
I see the knife with it's fine edge or is it dull, that can split worlds and shape
the trajectory of the history of Art. I hang up the phone and noticed
that I had completely tangled the chord.


Originally written on April 17, 2016. Only minor changes made to this second draft. I consider it unfinished. This poem is largely inspired by the poet James Tate. during 2015/2016 I experimented with many poems like this, telling a slightly surreal, slightly vague tale. Perhaps you could call this poem an attempt at imitating James Tate.