History forgets us.
We are cold, dead things,
brittle bones in homes of silt and dirt.
We are relics of a time
I can only remember between
the hours of one and seven a.m., when dreams
perform CPR and bring us back from
Centuries of Earth lie above us,
where the decaying flesh of the dead
inside coffins press onto my chest.
They hold my breath for me.
Prehistoric soil gets inside my
mouth, holds my tongue,
when I open it to remind
you that we
History can forget us,
but I know you can’t.