Knossos
did you ask the question
or know that after we die we
migrate into our things
irrelevant things important
things the cheap and the trivial
a note scribbled in haste
encompasses both our hand in the act
of writing and the shopping list
our rooms our carpeted floors
― the palace
the chair we sat in
― the stone throne
of Knossos
the survivors sigh
resting a hand on the red pillars
of things past
looking on
the stairs up the hill fill and empty
and all the feet in the world
passing passing
could not smooth out the
surface of that hurt
eating fire
& how we would get on a slow train
& ride all night long in packed corridors and compartments
& sleep standing
& eat homemade roast chicken and pies wrapped in newspapers
the print staining their crispy skin & crust
when we were young & unconcerned
swallowing headlines words & all
& on occasion the babies would cry
the whole length of the journey
but there was morning & there was arrival
& in that youth & that country that no longer flies a flag
there was summer
& there was the sea
***
Author photograph courtesy of V. B. Borjen
