Searing

Persistence of Vision

Is discounted by scientists as myth,
but too much is burned upon my retinas,
moments layered upon each other
as Duchamp’s “Nude Descending a Staircase.”

I remember a woman
flung down the stairs by her hair:
she was clothed
in tragedy—
scorn wrapped about her
through countless days
of biting words.
The rare landed fist
reinforced the litany of contempt
and disregard.

I remember her tears
and begging, and his towering
righteous rage
manifest in broken jars
and plates
and vows.

Now old, she forgets
most all but present wounds.
They are enough
for her to tread warily.

I carry the others for her
in countless visions,
red hot,
become one raging sun.

Persistence of Vision

Is discounted by scientists as myth,

but too much is burned upon my retinas,

moments layered upon each other

as Duchamp’s “Nude Descending a Staircase.”

I remember a woman

flung down the stairs by her hair:

she was clothed

in tragedy—

scorn wrapped about her

through countless days

of biting words.

The rare landed fist

reinforced the litany of contempt

and disregard.

I remember her tears

and begging, and his towering

righteous rage

manifest in broken jars

and plates

and vows.

Now old, she forgets

most all but present wounds.

They are enough

for her to tread warily.

I carry the others for her

in countless visions,

red hot,

become one raging sun.

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