The mind is a mean, old hag under a bridge, perched in her aerie of food bags and bottles, picking her teeth with bones. Her mother and father are long in the ground. Her days are filled with pacing and counting. Each time she’s been spat on or wept for her youth, she fused together stronger. No memory is ever lost— no effort ever wasted. Their residues lie marrow deep: etched in the sutures of our skull, curled in the girdle of our hips, graven in the very frame of being.
Thanks to Malcolm for looking at an earlier draft of this poem.