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.