Rappahannock Review | Jason McCall
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Jason McCall

We Love Throwback Thursday

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.

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