past
The past is sticky
like tree sap
I can not wash all of it off,
though I try, and try, and try, and try
I rub, and rub, and rub, and
no matter how often,
no matter how long,
the past just sticks to my fingers, now my hair, my lips my eyelids, my eyes, my mouth, my tongue,
and even my ears,
closing off the tastes, the voices, and especially the sounds of the present, which like earwickes turn and turn, and drill, and drill, and drill and turn so deeply that wax is made soft, ofter so that it drips as if to finally leave me, but when the cold comes, it hardens again, hardens, hardens, and hardens such that I am returned to the realization that the sap, like the past, just won't rub off at all.
Drumming, drumming, and drum drum drumming, no sound explodes, no ripping and tearing apart the bone. The past just stays, and stays, and stays, and haunts.
And haunts, and stays.
No matter the water, no matter, the heat, no matter the rub, the hands, the hair, the lips, the eyelids, the eyes, the mouth, the tongue, and my ears, it haunts and hears.
