KEIRA LYNN DODD

Here

Moments slip like soap--

no, messier-- like blood

pouring from a gash:

the more it hurts, 

the more real it is.

 

But pain has no memory,

only shadows of what you were

supposed to feel.

 

Tell the story, and it heals

in a way you never intended,

a beautiful scar,

a shape you don't remember,

though you finger it to trace

its edges-- the way the water

rippled sadness, the baby

sleeping on your arm,

the sun rotating away from

where you were, the wind

shaking you awake, 

the moment trailing behind you,

ever past tense,

a post on your wall--

the more you share it, 

the less it means,

until it crystalizes 

into a vase of empty thoughts:

 

the air you breathe,

the smile you wear,

unsure of how to feel,

always comparing your moments

to the scripted ones,

the ones that stand still,

replaying again and again

on your feed.

 

You try for permanence, 

mimicking art, 

but in real time. 

 

You arrange yourself

just so-- 

get the music right,

the correct angle

of lighting--

but still the moment

won't cooperate.

 

The sun sets too quickly,

the child turns away,

the song ends,

the blood cools,

and you're left trying

to explain it-- the memory

insufficient, the words

stale... even the video

a sad attempt to bring you back--

and you keep trying to go back,

to recreate the ache,

the little deaths as each moment

takes a flying leap, 

but you can't catch them,

so you hoard the echoes,

burying yourself in sounds

and signifiers, your senses

shielded by thousands

of zeroes and ones,

replaying in your head,

more familiar than the moment

poised on the edge of this knife,

sinking and bleeding,

its screams asking to be heard.

 

But you are too afraid.

 

You know you will fail to save it

or understand why it must die.  

 

Better to record its death 

in digestable chunks.

Better to recount it to friends

at dinner, framing the conversation

even as you fall--

slipping, tumbling,

end over end,

forever lost because

what you're looking for

is impossible--

 

a hand hold, a foot hold,

a pause button, 

a narrator to helpfully explain

what you're going for 

in this scene,

what the older you 

will wish you'd known--

 

why this moment 

is so important,

why it's so important to remain

 

here--

 

how it fits

into the larger picture--

the selfie you'll take at the end,

with all the moments hidden inside,

as if they are numbers

you can add up--

 

as if you can collect them

like sand in a jar,

stratified by color,

the years organized

according to theme--

 

but what you're left with 

is the blood in your veins,

the water lapping the shore,

the storm in the distance,

or right here in front of you,

and you-- never prepared.

 

And you-- living this moment,

one among many, 

no more special than any other,

except that it's yours--

 

here and now--

 

the child in your arms

more at peace with this moment

than you could ever be

because you've grown up

wishing you

were somewhere else.