I don’t want
to be devoid
of history,
but I don’t
want it weighing
me down.
I keep a basket
of birthday cards
and letters,
beneath my desk –
because I have
no other place.
And every now and then
I look to see
what to toss,
because time
has passed,
or memories
have been
But some things
linger, a card
with a Bolivian
woman carrying
her baby on her
back, a fine
purple script.
An enthusiastic
response in
green ink,
Yes. Yes. Yes.
What was too
painful got burned,
or ripped apart,
along the way.
Some of it in
the purging
of lost loves,
or ill-placed

I’ve been
its true.
And rejected.
I’ve hoped
where I shouldn’t
have and waited
where it
was a waste
of life.
And now I’m
old enough
to say,
I’ve managed
to survive
my life,
at least
so far.