Poem of the Week: The Past

The hand on your shoulder. The almost hand:
Poetry coming to claim you.
- Margaret Atwood, Dearly

Only you, over and over
claim the past back;

you walk with it
in the dim forest

or let it mutter
in sleep that has come

to claim you.

You let it scratch
in your mind knowing

it should be made obsolete.

The past will know
no loneliness

whether it rides on
the back of a swan

or attaches itself
to the moon.

It did not love you.
Your life wants you to soar

over a clear sea.

Joan McBreen’s sixth collection, Unbridled Joy, is published by Salmon Poetry this month