Because we get to believe history
is behind us, time is nothing
but a picture in a drawer
we can post on a wall and laugh at
with our friends. The hair cuts
and the cutoffs, braces and prom night
breakups. Let’s pretend history doesn’t hang
on our bodies like the black blood
and spear points and horse shit
and human shit on Hector’s corpse.
Of course they burned the body,
but we can’t burn our body
of work; our history’s here: the scars
that meet us in the shower, our hairline,
credit line, line we won’t cross
to touch a warm chest in the morning.
Lines move, but time doesn’t
work in lines, doesn’t work
like the interstate: exits passed
and forgotten, rest stops marked
miles beforehand. We draw time
machines in the margins
not because the past is out of our grasp
or because the future is a Sphinxian riddle.
We wish it took black magic
or a black hole to touch yesterday.
We wish most tomorrows weren’t
predictable as the sun.