One night a month flew into the candle,
was caught, burnt dry, and held.
— Annie Dillard, A typo from “Transfiguration”
Back in the day, my grandmother would dry meat in the sun
to save for winter so that no child would go without thick stew
in Februaries as cold as this.
Time is never fresh, always fleeting, always drying itself out
while wetting its bed simultaneously. It twines together with other
pasts, other futures, other nows, until it makes a braid thick enough
to hang our memories with.
Months pass and seasons come and go, and history repeats itself
in ways too small for textbooks to explain to us.
Archaeologists dug up a six-page love letter from remains in Nepal,
and here we are, recreating history — keeping the light of love
from fading by writing 140-character tweets to each other
that any server crash could easily lose.
Last November, pickled by words, was held dry
between the pages of my journal. Our first kiss, just a flip of a page away
Not even the body forgets. There are scars on my knees
from falling and never getting back up. There are calluses on my thumbs
from burning myself with lighters too much, too often.
Even the streets I live around hold histories that I can always
return to — the Thai place, now closed; the Highline; the poetry
club that I first read at. Everything holds our echoes. Even months
dry out when you press them like petals between pages. Even time
can be made into something that can last forever: like beef jerky, like
light, like this gravity before we fall.
— "One night a moth flew into the candle," Shinji Moon