your past
is not a place
you used to live
but now do not.
it is a rope tied to a rock
a thousand ropes
tied to a thousand rocks
dancing behind you
in the dark
skimming asphalt
bleeding sparks
like "just married" cans
tied to a bumper.
it is
a thousand tiny anchors
cutting grooves into the earth
like rows
of rich Alabama soil
waiting to be planted
it is
your history
scratched into the dirt
like sanskrit
the original story
of sin
and retribution.
it is
a thousand paralyzed moments
anchoring you
to yourself
with chains
sticky and yellowing
woven from cobwebs
and old hair
and dead flowers
crushed
between the transparent pages
of the family bible.
your past is not a place
you used to be
but now are not.
your past
is written
on your body
it is
every scar
stretch mark
laugh line or
wrinkle
every dimple
age spot
yellowing bruise
or graying tattoo
that maps on your skin
and whispers to me
the origins
of your birth.
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