Archaeology

 

You can burn photographs of faces

but their contours still cling to your skin,

You can define your past as history;

seal it in an envelope marked

Forget,

but it returns to you as a mantra,

in a certain kind of light, with the scent

of rain-soaked tarmac or the taste of oysters

and his look hits you

with all the force of a fossil

thrown against the soft part of your chest,

his look cuts you as you chop garlic,

his look exhumes every emotion

that you've ever laid to rest. 

Gaia Holmes