This is a comfort: forgetting.
Death wraps us in a blanket of
forgiveness, releases all our sins
and heartbreak to the care of those
we leave behind. What they do with it
is their own business, their own
problem. If you want to remember it,
then it is yours. Me, I am content
to forget, to be forgotten.
It happens to all of us, if lucky.
This is a comfort: ignorance.
Having forgotten is not enough
when they all believe you remember.
Amnesia is the gift, convenient
when you don’t recall, when
the bruises of the spirit
warn you away, a sensation
of cool gratitude frosting over
whatever the injury is that is
so hugely and happily forgettable.
This is a comfort: listening.
The quiet drone of a slight
lisping voice reciting kindness
in a language you don’t know.
Sounds of single words ripple
like droplets in water.
The mind soothed in shades of blue,
like water, and grey, like clouds.
Voices of children let loose
from open books to cascade and echo.