Cristel Orrand Writer

A Gap Year of Missing Memory

I tried to find the missing year.
At first, it was only slough piles,
snake skin, translucent scales deteriorating in the street.
Later, it was a broken feather,
a red-tailed hawk's, floating in a puddle. These were clues, I knew, though I could not replace their meaning.

But soon, dreaming began to fill
the cracks and Gary Sinise bought Shell Island, as a sanctuary for the sea,
and veterans with missing limbs, and PTSD, and missing memories trauma- locked inside people like me. Inch worms writing in octopus ink, and the pink carpet under the sink.

Then there was no difference between a wake and dreaming, rendering sleep unnecessary,
and my speech, mad-seeming,
drifted towards the dead, glowing, standing vigil beside my bed, showing me terrible things,
I had no other way of knowing.

I saw the flood in vines,
films they played in my mind-
a ghostly water horse fuming
the sorghum and corn burning,
violently turning brown in decay,
vital information, exigencies relayed, but the next day, I can't say why.

I'd say it's fine, but, of course, it isn't. I've seen the scars of bullet wounds, a surgeon's hands inside my chest, blood, and sacrifice in the street, but this- my mind declared off limits to me,
it's just too horrible to see.

I've searched far, and various ways,for my memory of the missing year, though the main is still locked away. But maybe it is a sanctuary, a shell island locked inside the sea, where knowing knows no bounds, and the ink worms squirm free.

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