April Ossmann Event Boundaries

Such a comfort to know
it's temporary dementia,

when I enter a room
and forget why I came—

to fetch a pen to write a note
to remember the task

my brain's just mislaid—
I've only to pass back

through the fogging doorway
to reclaim a resolution or name—

and conversely, a relief to think
I won't have to live

every future tick and tock
of my anxious watch

recalling how distraught
I was over anyone's death:

I've only to stroll
a doorframe's border

to forget a particular grief,
misbegotten love

or moral lapse, to escape
the rasp of conscience

or self-flagellation,
to visit the nations

of remembrance
or amnesia as I please.


Back to 49.1