On the Illusion of ClosureLauren Kizi-Ann Alleyne
The body remembers the wound despite the tightly threaded stitches; the arm cut off for its own good, it tries to wave. The brain recalls with ease, the scent of a married ex-lover's shirt; the exact shape of the deceased uncle's nose: O hook of memory! Tell me the house doesn't dream of the old walls where mice nested in the shed hair of its owners. Tell me the earth doesn't remember each disappeared footpath and forest, every city razed to dust. Burned out stars give the light we dream by. What I'm saying is my heart, that stubborn muscle, has learned the wild cadences of your music; I'm saying even when your echo fades away it dances on.
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