Canto of the Reporters (32)

Memoir freezes flesh,

the granite boulder

you try to lever out

is large below the surface,

an iceberg in dirt.

We write as we see.

The cruelty of Dante

dragging up by the hair

the criminal

who wants no fame,

but to vanish into the frozen

swamp. Reaping,

reporters made the day

trip from the city.

They took us seriously

until it was printed.

Tim still worries

that they’ll turn up,

camped out, asking us,

‘are you telling the truth?

And if it’s truth,

doesn’t that make

betrayal?’ It babushka-dolls

out of control. It Chinese-

boxes. It is a nest

of tables. Tabula rasa.

Our experiences

to tell, deploy

as we wish? Dish

up, dissect, display?

I work at the granite

boulder bit by bit: it

is a mountain,

I used poor judgement

based on the tip,

its summit.