Anna Melnikova, Memories of Lost Love 1
Remembrance Cup
(to Greg)
Karl Sherlock
To the memory of your mother, I once
flaunted her antique opalescent coffee cups
on my shelves, teased out the dust from
the fine china rime of their porcelain rosettes,
and pampered their pale gold inscriptions,
Remember me and Forget Me Not. I confess,
they did not often cajole me to recollect her,
nor do I ever now dwell on that vague and
motherly kindness of giving someone else’s child
a gift so precious. I can’t tell you what damage
time might have levied upon them. They’re lost,
probably casualties in the cruel letting go
of estate sales, or swaddled in tissue paper
and boxed in a box I’ll never think to open.
Yet, for all the ways I’ve bottled her memory
and abandoned it; for my unmindful laughter
during her funeral vigil; for pulling away when
I should have pulled you to me, lingering just
outside the chance of another's death or grief;
for always wishing far less bravely to have
done with it–I could lie to you now, say
she’ll never be forgotten again. Or, instead,
let this guilt, lazy and quiet, jog a recollection
of the long green table in your boyhood kitchen
where her soft hand stroked your face; then,
one day, reach for you as if for a delicate cup
I might straighten on its saucer. Afterward,
I will tell you this was done in memory of her.
After, you will know I did this solely for myself.
(to Greg)
Karl Sherlock
To the memory of your mother, I once
flaunted her antique opalescent coffee cups
on my shelves, teased out the dust from
the fine china rime of their porcelain rosettes,
and pampered their pale gold inscriptions,
Remember me and Forget Me Not. I confess,
they did not often cajole me to recollect her,
nor do I ever now dwell on that vague and
motherly kindness of giving someone else’s child
a gift so precious. I can’t tell you what damage
time might have levied upon them. They’re lost,
probably casualties in the cruel letting go
of estate sales, or swaddled in tissue paper
and boxed in a box I’ll never think to open.
Yet, for all the ways I’ve bottled her memory
and abandoned it; for my unmindful laughter
during her funeral vigil; for pulling away when
I should have pulled you to me, lingering just
outside the chance of another's death or grief;
for always wishing far less bravely to have
done with it–I could lie to you now, say
she’ll never be forgotten again. Or, instead,
let this guilt, lazy and quiet, jog a recollection
of the long green table in your boyhood kitchen
where her soft hand stroked your face; then,
one day, reach for you as if for a delicate cup
I might straighten on its saucer. Afterward,
I will tell you this was done in memory of her.
After, you will know I did this solely for myself.