selves as containers

there was a time when things were so very bad and it was a long time ago in a different life not this but of another no matter it may appear our existence is in a chronological order and that life was first and this second and this version only possible because of how that first was turned into something else and brought out into the open air for sun for breath and those that remain insoluble are kept stored in airtight glass containers and kept in cupboards or closets or hidden under old unused linens to be forgotten.

nobody talks about the time and the glass containers no matter their details have fused themselves as stalagmites and stalactites into the limestone caves of our minds where we keep a guard the small but wary version of ourselves who makes certain the door is locked to keep underground water from following its way following the indelible map that breathes in the dark having been accustomed in the dark that leads into the gap into the time when things were so very bad they remain dregs in our sleep

they call and make us walk in their wakefullness in our sleep the perpetually abandoned us haunting our own adult selves who have become amnesiac and selective and brave and afraid

yes there are so many things so many stories of times when things were so very bad it takes All of Silence to keep our dam selves whole.


                                                  
                                                                                                    of Mamala and women who live among people