“Memories of the Future” by Michael Mirolla

The bells still chime at noon (electric now)

tintinnabulating over that house

on 14th Avenue. The hypnotic call

for black-kerchiefed worshippers who shuffle

rosary beads in hand susurrating

towards the churchyard where “unauthorized

vehicles will be towed at owner’s expense”

awaits. A blessing? Or a …? What will we

dig up spinning forward the wheel? The groan

of tired bricks that mortar can no longer

hold. A breeze fluttering curtains open

like angel wings across undisturbed beds.

Rust from the drip drip of a ceiling leak

delighted to torture whatever falls

in its path: wedding photo, playing cards,

silver spoons, I Robot, embroidered lace,

the long dry sigh of a chest warped shut.

But wait. Keep that wheel from moving. Let us

suppose a time, a place held in stasis.

Memories of what has yet to come to pass.

A way to superimpose the first

onto the last bringing them together

in a postmodern music of the spheres

like some sort of cosmic accordion.

What do we expect? In a blurry sequence

of stills, the husk of old flesh returning

to young. Agile bodies working to indent

an unsheeted mattress under basement bulb.

Sweat-drenched. Straining to catch the perfect wave

while gnaw-interrupted rodents look on

too startled to react as dust explodes

and then settles to reveal the hollow-boned

remains so light as to not even leave

an indent. And is there a bell for this?

The same bell or different bells casting

the same spell? Or is it a net? It tosses

the just-stepped-off-the-ship like gasping fish

onto shores where breathless dreams

play their cruel games with the future and ask:

Can the putrid give birth to more than just life

all knobs and crusted wishes? Can the tinkling

of matins stand a chance against the crunch

of early-morning snow slapping raw faces?

And where does the pre-dawn shuffling towards

a factory’s shrill whistle fit the picture?

Don’t ask what goes to the front of the line.

The fisted anger held in cruel desires?

Or a homesickness that squeezes and squeezes

the beating muscle to make it impenetrable

against both blood-thirsty flowers and thorns?

Remembering then the 6 a.m. bells

that echo through a fog-shrouded field

where scythe in hand you sculpt the wheat

and the occasional viper that spits

out its fury from severed head before

falling back into the earth in a cycle

that knows no past or future, no start

or finish. Only the urge to persist.

And then you dip stale bread in a lather

of milk under the timeless oak that creaks

with the wind. A wind crying to be free

from the fancifulness of fate, the cruelty

of random coin flips, even if self-made,

culminating in evensong’s brief hope,

wisps of smoke that curl above the chimney.

Often we forget how narrow the path

how close the dis-order with teeth nipping

at the small victory of one more step

one more syncopated wave amid …

amid … hard to even put into words …

into some semblance of a plan perhaps …

For what’s gone? For what’s coming? For what’s …

awaiting us in that end-of-day churchyard?

But the paperwork is self-imposed, a way

to keep track: Stacks of might-have-beens next to

close calls … thick folders of what may-become

obscuring the slim sliver of what was

and almost-memories of what will be.

No, better to aim for what-is-not-yet

(a wide-open space pretending to lay

out options) as if somewhere between lauds

and vespers squats a choice you might have missed.

MICHAEL MIROLLA has published close to 20 books of poetry and fiction. Among his awards: three Bressani Prizes. His novella, The Last News Vendor, won the 2020 Hamilton Literary Award. A symposium on Michael’s writing was held in Toronto on May 25, 2023. He makes his home near Gananoque in the Thousand Islands.

Michael’s website: https://www.michaelmirolla.com/