The Complete Lack of Home Movies
from my childhood has allowed our stories
to deteriorate into alternate versions
like some newfangled computer game.
We can change the background from sepia
to neon, to the somber suffocating purple
of the old church. We smudge bordered photos,
clutching black and white against color’s
complete disappearance, sunburn and blush
and goddamn pure happiness fading into
the blurry haze of bad color tv, all tint,
no contrast. Ah, memory flickers, film breaking
from endless splices of the heart.
In the dark room unlit by nostalgia’s fuse,
our sock puppets turn on us.
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