in dark refrigerators.
The sun dances free.
A battalion of vines,
in a measured
and patient assault, beat back
the metal frame of window screens,
attack the frayed cords
The window jambs
have already fallen
to the first wave of tendrils.
Somedays it seems as if
I woke on the wrong planet,
as if bed, town, and country changed,
as if even the hemisphere is different now.
No matter what amount of coffee I pour
or how fast my battered feet fly,
I can never catch up to where
spanning the globe
from John Franklin to Roald Amundsen,
all claim to be Atlantis.
Each one shows off their stone arch. Each one
bears a painted image of warriors still in battle,
or women collecting jugs of water despite
being in the deepest fathoms of it.
Each one declares authenticity, holds up their ruins
and begs to be remembered, as
all of us ask to be remember,
to be loved for eternity:
I was here. I was here.
never forget me.
© 2021 Vera S. Scott
“. . . there occurred violent earthquakes and floods; and in a single day and night of misfortune all your warlike men in a body sank into the earth, and the island of Atlantis in like manner disappeared in the depths of the sea.” – Plato
You never were real
genuinely alive, I mean, an actual breathing,
cussing, jig dancing human being.
You were only an idea,
like an ex-husband
early on in the relationship
before the ex-part set in, or maybe like
a superstar who doesn’t fart or scratch
in any of the wrong places at the wrong times.
You existed so character one
had a reason to battle against character two
on the way to someplace else that never existed either.
I couldn’t simply kill you.
I had to completely write you out.