by Mela Suarez
Memories are like wood carvings.
Visiting one is like drawing a knife against its surface,
Cutting and whittling to reveal something new underneath.
People marvel at this duplicity,
Running through newly-formed facets,
This newness a sign of precarious existence.
I keep mine in a box.
Tucked away in the crevices of my mind,
Nothing left to do but gather dust.
Sometimes, though, they knock themselves together
And topple into the forefront of my mind.
I marvel too.
I only wish to run my fingers along these facets
And grasp this link to my humanity.
But to no avail.
I whittle away instead.
Drawing not only more facets
But more of myself
Until these memories topple back,
Knocking themselves together
To gather dust in the crevices of my mind.