352/365: The Terrible Game
I could look back on my whole, long, beautiful life
through that vintage gauze of memory
and see every gorgeous thing,
summer dark under pine trees
and bright on the water,
winter loud as styrofoam under foot
and soft through makeshift igloo walls,
the horse that bit and
the cats I swore I'd love more than any other,
the man I'd wholly consume
if he wouldn't die.
I want it all just like that,
a zoetrope spinning
the flavours of warm butter and soft candy,
watercolour and lovely
and so impossible.
But that's not how it is
now, in these Decembers.
This body aches
and wishes its time away.
I savour forgetting.
I press each new, middle-aged lump
in a search for painful tumours.
You never forget your first one.
Will this one be my end? Or this one?
It's a terrible game.
I am writing one poem every day in 2016, and I am using the hashtag #365poems to document my progress.