I am your collective memory,
a living record, collected to stand the test of time.
Hard copies written on the backs of my eyelids;
my mouth is full of names, and places.
Dressed in my shadows and once-fine fabrics,
this body is only half mine by now.
Hands made for every one of these delicate works;
Held in my father’s, they were his opus.
Soaked in bleach and silence, they were yours.
They stir and strain,
tend to open mouths and open wounds,
stitching the memories of others back inside.
Once, I had forgotten the sound of my voice,
buried beneath the stacks.
Locked up and the key swallowed;
I existed to keep you.
In last whispers, in bleeding cries.
I know you hear it now,
in the corner of me where you live.
I...