Forgetfulness

Forgetfulness


The name of the author
is the first to go
followed obediently by the title,
the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion,
the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one
you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one,
the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire
to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village
where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names
of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation
pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize
the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away,
a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle,
the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling
to remember, it is not poised
on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some
obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down
a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L
as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion
where you will join those
who have even forgotten
how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise
in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle
in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window
seems to have drifted
out of a love poem
that you used to know by heart.

Billy Collins

Posted over on Poemhunter