I handed him my Macy’s bags of facts:
eight years of EOBs & tax returns.
He climbed the steps to hurl them in the truck
with others’ ready to be crushed by blades.
And so the re-creation has begun,
the tabula rasa, like a magic slate,
a child’s whose rub or peel of plastic delights:
now you see it, now you don’t. No truth
to spin, no monument. The letters, shapes
evaporate like homes dismantling in
charity vans, the furniture displaced
like lives without a country’s tenderness.
No ashes to enshrine from documents,
no mercy found, no heart to resurrect.
Photo Credit: Staff