In Search of Lost Property
Michael Salcman
Inside our incomplete selves the past is mostly unknown,
too few pictures with familiar faces, not enough names.
A writer with a stolen past soon runs out of stories
but telling the future’s a snap: burnt ash, burnt bone.
The earth must do its work.
A lost cousin sent me a chart with dates and names
and the lines rubbed out; lists don’t make a tree of life.
There are Germans and Brits who can connect the dots,
I know I’m too old to hunt them down.
The earth must do its work.
In Prague, with mounds of silver finials and breastplates
from scrolls, not even the ghosts come around.
Before anyone says Kaddish over my ash and bone
find the neighboring tree where I’ve left this respectable koan:
The earth must do its work.
Michael Salcman
Inside our incomplete selves the past is mostly unknown,
too few pictures with familiar faces, not enough names.
A writer with a stolen past soon runs out of stories
but telling the future’s a snap: burnt ash, burnt bone.
The earth must do its work.
A lost cousin sent me a chart with dates and names
and the lines rubbed out; lists don’t make a tree of life.
There are Germans and Brits who can connect the dots,
I know I’m too old to hunt them down.
The earth must do its work.
In Prague, with mounds of silver finials and breastplates
from scrolls, not even the ghosts come around.
Before anyone says Kaddish over my ash and bone
find the neighboring tree where I’ve left this respectable koan:
The earth must do its work.
