Can we recover from our past?
Or does it seep through to the present
as the garish color of underlying old wallpaper
left unstripped
will usually show through
to the pale expensive layer on top
and spoil
everything?
You know the answer.
The past
is never safely
in the past.
It punctures the present: a needle pricking a balloon.
It sneaks into right-now life, sly as a pickpocket,
invisible and unnoticed
until a witness cries out.
The unhealed past will seep through layers of time
as a deep enough wound will bleed through layers of gauze bandages,
however neatly applied.
It’s not like hanging wash on a line, where everything is clean and pinned into place, waiting for you to gather and fold it neatly into bundles.
The past is not done, or washed through, or finished. Don’t fool yourself, please.
Don’t look around; don’t look down. Don’t bother. It’s there.
That’s your past: at your feet, on your shoulders, its hand on the back of your neck.
It’s stroking you softly in the very way you’ve come to hate.
