Eternal Recurrence | Nostalgic Misconceptions
by Michael Homolka
The point seems to be that the wounds not heal
because they aren’t wounds but existence.
There are those whose destinies float like skiffs
across a flat horizon, fingers hovering over phones
while their daughters pour out their souls,
life trials but an ocean of glassy memories.
I think back on my earliest friends,
teeth too big for their mouths, flipping pill bugs
by flowerpots, all our parents mid-divorce.
Honda after Honda from the eighties
glides past the coffee shop where my sister reminds
my father of his cruelties, both of their faces
wet with tears while I eavesdrop off to the side.
Cruelty about money, cruelty about time.
The white convertible we kept selling back to
each other. Light blue oaks and pale orange sky,
rockweed spoils half a block away. I come home
and face the blank parking lot, its awesome
clouds among cans of Amstel Lite as my thoughts
lash out at each other like wars in a textbook.
One bedroom and an autobiography of my early
twenties. Long stretches of undefined time—I clutch
at their cheekbones, having held out my hands
to the divorce for years, in whose mannerisms
I imagined tenderness. The yellowed fields,
the slick verdigris upon entering the city to rejoin
the present. Daffodils that flow like waves
and waves that scatter like petals. Each of the family
remains faithful to their decade—my sister still
demanding apologies from all who’ve failed her.