We’d like to peel the skin off
these memories, as easily
as we peel potatoes
on a Wednesday morning,
a soft, pliable pile
of brown and red scabs
like wood shavings
or bark peels , the skins
littering the wet ground
how we enjoy gouging
out the rotted eyes, the aged spots
of these firm, yellowed orbs
leaving craters to fill
with rainwater pools.
It could all be so simple
as peeling potatoes
on a Wednesday morning.
a veil closes, falling into place
hiding and dividing
you from a place you call home.
dreams and imaginings
of another life
rise
like smoke
like spirits
from the graves-
dias de los muertos
is everyday living.
the past
is the past,
mi mama used to say
though she moves
through it every night
in her sleep.
en este familia, no queremos
recorder historias
our family tree stunted,
my mother tongue stumped.
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