The boards were taken back to apricot,
and the walls were fresh-painted ivory, bare,
the sawdust vacuumed up, that had not
slipped, between the cracks, or hung in the air.
As books hold thoughts together, and give light,
this room had been my heart’s book, whose pages
had held my stories, put shadows to flight,
and kept me whole through other purges.
Memories clink and touch and slowly wear,
they crumble under rugs, rub away slow,
like old coins lost in the back of a chair,
in friction between the then and the now.
Now stripped and sanded, all my history,
this brutal nakedness is new to me.
© 2007 James Morgan Nash