The Past

The past does not haunt us, does not

moan from the rafters or materialize

from the plaster like some genteel

ghost which means no harm.

The past stalks ahead of us inspecting

the snares, counting the deadfalls,

probing the open pits, knowing we

will fall into them, knowing that though

we’ve been there before, we’re stupid enough

to revisit these haunts. And when we do, 

the past  grabs us by the neck and wails

into our ear: Here we are again.

Dumbfounded, we wriggle in its grasp,

and when it rasps, I want, we — eager

to ingratiate and possibly escape, 

hazard words we think might work:  

“Atonement?” we try. “Retribution? 

Compensation?” The past tightens 

its grip until we are forced to silence. 

It studies us with loathing, and hope.

A future, it finishes.                                                                                   printable