Go Back

You can pull nails,

but a hole is made,

and for every hole a haunt

of memory

where the voids

left too small

a space to slip

through my

recall, the

pieces pulled

from my door,

or forget the holes

and nails it once bore

You can pull nails,

but the holes are made

a haunting of memory,

of my mother who always

spoke to me

in similes

of my father's hand,

and the nails it drove

Can we go back

to the way it was once

can we completely mend

or go back to once was

before I met you

Can we go back

to the way it was once?

I'd reclaim all those

pieces from the door

I held

before I met you.