Patricia Farewell
NOSTALGIA
Biltern, biltern,
how I love this word
whose meaning I cannot remember.
How I love to tie the years
like stalks into bundles.
Sometimes I miss myself
in a moonlit lake a hundred miles from here
near an unhaunted house to dry off in.
I see old people passing spices
down a table; forks on the left;
knIves on the right.
I ran everywhere then.
At birthday parties I somersaulted
down the lawn and let total strangers
comb the grass through my hair.
It's this list I want, though:
first robbery, lie, dirty picture,
food binge, death, death, sneaky sex,
broken bone and poem-
with you leaning forward
to hear all my voices
as I play back my childhood,
happy or unhappy.
