Memories by the Lake We do not remember why, but we do this in remembrance. As if a sculpture etched, in our mind's dark hole, black and sticky and wet like our worker's hands on the clay, that we dredge up from our lake deep: deep and dark, as memory. We do not remember why, but we do this in remembrance. As if our swimmer's know, by bone - that deep tissue knowledge - that language we have lost, but is spoken in the gills and gulps of fish: This clay will not be used for pottery. We do not remember why, but we do this in remembrance. Our Chosen is parched and silent: The Swimmers swim; The Workers work; The Clay is soft and pliable. With gentle hands we wrap the feet - heavy, to speed the sinking. We do this to remember. MaggotsX @ 04.23.2023
