Tree art by Stephen King
Personal Archeology
I imagine an archeologist's apprentice
her tiny brush slowly sweeping
minute clumps of dry mud
from the unearthed skeleton remains
of a Neanderthal man,hoping for proof of what might
have been a scar's origin—
the result of a claw, sharp teeth,
or a cave squabble among friends.
It took patience to find it,
but the old scar on my finger
is still there, slightly lighter
than the rest of my skin
a faint memory of pain, decades ago,
and a story most likely not worth telling.
Yet, I remember how it bled
and I stood before the sink
keeping the wound under the trickle
of a rusty kitchen faucet...
But here I go on telling you
a story more embarrassing than meaningful,
details always gush
from rusty memories.When I sit down to write, I excavate
some small moment. I go at it
with a soft brush, but it may not yield
a rabbit's bone, let alone the handof an ancestor. That's the nature
of remembering, not promising much
more than a stiff wrist
or a sore back.
Letter to the Editor
Regarding the photograph you asked for,
I have sent you a picture of my mother.If you want a true portrait of myself, use this one,
I'm her bet on having our lives count.Please note, I am less afraid of not being someone,
I don't gasp as long when I'm dismissed.You might even tell that my strategy no longer involves
leaping on someone's lap to be stroked.I may even look poised when I'm not noticed,
at peace, deep under my unkempt fur.
