Memories are like pieces of art – everyone reacts differently to them, seeing meanings that are invisible to others. Perhaps its the angles at which we see things when looking down the corridors of the brain. Maybe that’s the wrong analogy. Perhaps the process is more like old German fairy tales being given the Disney treatment, where there’s a horrifically patriarchal happy ending to wash out any non-commercial cultural heritage that won’t “spark joy”.
Your voice is an echo from the past
Retelling stories that are more distant
to me each time they are told.
Facts twisted until they break
Under the pressure
as bleak days are washed clean
by your milk and honey remembering.
I am supposed to go along with the charade
So your guilt is finally lifted and we can all
The requirement that I participate
in the revisionism
Throws petrol on memories that still burn
from so long ago.