Rewritten City

by Erica Martin

I miss the places that are gone now

Smoky sweaty air 

Grates that shake 

And a sloping tunnel that smells like fresh earth. 

But as the bulldozer rips them away

At least now the wounds can cauterize.

Far worse are the places that remain unchanged

As the city folds and flips

Instead of ripping

Upending your perspective

Though the materials remain.

Sidewalks and doors

Bras that drip from the ceiling

A painted demon who pukes red wine

A very exclusive bathroom shelf

And the chalky drywall that once smeared our clothes

They look exactly the same.

These mummified sets now hold no players

Or worse, new ones

Traipsing callously through your most haunted spots.

Preserved halls that meant one thing now mean

Nothing

As the city turns its page on you.

So you rewrite it

Your story

On the starchy new page

Rewrite the limbs on the dance floor

The menagerie of smokers by the door

The kneeling people in the bathroom stall

The long chats by unsubtle candlelight.

Erase a few faces

And draw in the new

As the book spine wrinkles

From vigorous reuse

And the erasing

The eviction

The exorcism

Gets less complete every time.

How many times can you reuse a place

A bar, a street corner, a hidden upstairs room, a bed

Before it has no new memories left to give you?

Just a chaotic mess of the old ones

Laid on syrupy and thick.

So you reshuffle the pieces

Braid the bones into mismatched sets.

They clink and twitch

And fit together

Under the dark power of your scribbling hand

But not into anything whole.