The hunger to forget, a flock
of questions, a flight of memories.
Finishing my life might look like these
photographs my mother sent me,
annotated in her shaky hand with names,
leaves that will outlive us all. Outside,
each swallow is a finger and the flock a hand
sweeping lucky moments off the pond.
If I’ve been wrong about my life,
my memories are better off dropped
in the water. Give me, please
a hatch of mayflies caught
by a flight of swallows, hand to mouth,
something more than what it was, small
and finely drawn, to carry me away.
Rich Kenefic is a retired engineer living in the Midwest. His poems and essays can be found in recent or forthcoming issues of the Arkansas International, the Main Street Rag, and Notre Dame Review.