Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Grandmother's Attic

Our lives are secrets

That lay hidden inside

Time-bent volumes of

Leather-bound manuscripts

That attract dust and decay

The way magnets corral

Wayward metal fillings,

Brush and blow the dusty tops

Of antiquated trunks

That harbor memories

The way the rich must

Harbor guilt in their gut,

Gold-flaked padlocks

Can only remain closed

So long as the dust forms unfettered,



Like skin that remains hidden from the sun,

Soft and serene

Gentle and smooth,

And, the more time rains down,

Wavers lethargically though elegantly,

To and fro,

As though to suggest indifference,

And covers these objects

With flakes of dead skin,

The more the dust becomes

A carnal shell,

An epidermis that hides

The truth from the world,

The more time passes,

The more it becomes like performing surgery,

Piercing through the dust

As though our fingertips were scalpels,

Almost hearing an anguish

Or moan as the trunk’s top creaks open,

And we children stare with

The same intimacy and calculated objectivity

That surgeons must employ

During surgery,

Our noses are hit with rank stagnation

That old familiar scent of decay,

That olfactory equivalent

To atoms and cells screaming

As they fade from this form

To another,

Organic putrefaction,

The inevitability that we are

Simply constructed to be deconstructed,

To realign,


To be reinvented,

Isn’t it funny that the skin that once

Hid me from me,

Now covers these objects

And hides their true radiance

From my eyes?

The masks of time

Are our own hidden regrets

Cast over the objects

That have become extensions of ourselves,

And we become confined and defined

By this net,

Yes, we are no longer

Simply arms and legs,

Phalanges and Phenotypes,

But we are the forgotten-furniture,

The clothes we have out-grown,

The photo albums and

Vinyl records whose covers

We ran our fingertips along

As though we were reading

Our own obituaries in Braille,

They decay along with us,

Their relevancy and utility

Fade along with our own,

Their integrity atrophies,

Their waveless appearance

Gives way to the pressure of existence,

Causing it to crumble and wither,

If revelation had a scent it would be death,

If revelation had a sound it would be silence,

If revelation had a face

It would be the image of

The young holding open a trunk

In Grandmother’s attic,

Enjoying that one last moment of life

Before the objects in their lives

Turn on them and begin

Their backward march

To imprison and confine the young

And reduce their life to

A secret letter hidden in a

Leather-bound manuscript



By: Marvin Gonzalez

1 comment:

  1. Like skin that remains hidden from the sun! beautiful Marv, full of sensations and dust.