Remembering is a steep climb
to a box sealed in granite.
Raise your eyes. There is new weather
heading East. Hand over hand
is best. Call out my name–I may
hear you. A volcano lived here.
You can slip on basalt. I know
your shoulders ache. Rest.
Sit right next to the past.
Here are all the nouns: people,
places, and things. Verbs
are actions, but frozen. Here
are the 50s, before interstates.
The family is driving to Nebraska.
You may join them if you wish.
On the way to Kindergarten, your
mother holds your hand. Curtie
died of polio, but there he is.
A girl named Evelyn. Look
for your birth in the corner.
Here comes language, waking up
on the Savannah. New oceans
pour on boiling rock.