Pauline
by Evan Harrison
Memory is blood,
a certain river as it flows
yet threateningly opaque
and quiet outside the skin.
But still, it’s life.
I begin with a basement,
windows stuck with dirt,
an old woman draped
with a black shroud—
she cared for me some
afternoons. Her face could
have only been sulphur
creased by branching water.
She had a painting I remember
as “Little Boy Blue”—
a young man looking outward
in the dress of some old America—
it terrified me, but I liked
her, and wanted to leave.
That is all: no words, movement,
or reason. Is this what we become
or what we already are?
