Ars Memoriea (The Art of Memory)

Since the time of the Greek lyrics, I have been collecting –

in clay black pots, now lost among the ruins, and in Mason

jars of smoked glass, retrieved from the old man’s boat

shed – luminous beetles that cling to the curtains, float

above bare floors, illuminate the darkest corners, the forgotten

rooms of this forgotten house.

When my mind empties,

I can hear the imagined wood

tilt and creak: in the first place,

in the second place,

in the third place…

In the fourth room there is a cedar chest, locked.

Within the chest, a fragment of Danae’s Lamentations.

My glowing hands, smeared with luciferase – remnants

of larvae swept from windowsills. In the cold light I read

that the king set the infant Perseus adrift at night – thrown

into a chest with his mother and cast out to sea. As light fades,

the indignant echoes of the chorus are muffled; the lid crashes

down. Shadows struggle to drag the chest through the door.

Before I can tell this story, I must

give shape to lost memories, uncover

layers of soot and shadow,

centuries of candle smoke.

Five easels lean against the far wall. They are covered

in paint and fireflies. White stucco walls, thumb-tacked

with nude sketches hastily inked – a petite woman, sitting

in silhouette. The lantern flies flicker; my bare feet glimmer

with pigments: orange vermillion, deep-red sanguine,

and – darkest of all – bone char. A bed-ridden man

stares across the room. His portrait returns a steady

gaze, drying in the night.

I easily lose myself in this

memory palace, constantly

rediscovering unfamiliar hallways.

It will take years for me to deconstruct

what remains to be uncovered.

Six pieces of tattered cloth flutter in the wind. The white-haired

woman shelling beans on the porch is oblivious to me –

to the green flashes of gentle light on the lawn, the sound

of water curling against the shore. Inside the house, silence.

Then, the rattle and hiss of a boiling kettle. She shuffles unhurried

through the doorway; the sputtering whistle rises to a breathy

scream, then fades utterly.