by Laura Foley
Arriving early for a meeting
in a dim church basement,
I nearly stumble
on a dazed elderly lady
fallen prone on concrete,
beset by a deacon
fearful of lawsuits, who asks
who she is so repeatedly
he sounds like a machine,
heightening the scene’s
surreality, till she quavers
a name vaguely familiar
to my groping brain,
as sunlight fingers
through a dusty window
like a feeble god ray—
she’s my mother’s old
elementary school friend—
whose arm I take,
to walk her slowly home,
through city streets
so loud with hurry
their fury blurs my vision,
as we descend
through the eye of its vortex,
into the vast unspoken realm
of memory predating me.
Arriving early for a meeting
in a dim church basement,
I nearly stumble
on a dazed elderly lady
fallen prone on concrete,
beset by a deacon
fearful of lawsuits, who asks
who she is so repeatedly
he sounds like a machine,
heightening the scene’s
surreality, till she quavers
a name vaguely familiar
to my groping brain,
as sunlight fingers
through a dusty window
like a feeble god ray—
she’s my mother’s old
elementary school friend—
whose arm I take,
to walk her slowly home,
through city streets
so loud with hurry
their fury blurs my vision,
as we descend
through the eye of its vortex,
into the vast unspoken realm
of memory predating me.
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