I inherit a house at the edge
of wild forests where I rarely go.
There will come a time when lost,
walking the back streets of memory,
I check every gate for a way out.
Only one door handle fits my palm.
A found story I never thought
I was missing; my home, dark
monument recognises my hand.
God forbid this mistake of certainty,
for it brings familiarity of place,
it reduces everything to beginnings
until I admit that what is gone is taller
than me, louder, and always right.
Ask Jonah. He would say the same:
People see monuments as lessons of hierarchy.
They decide the order of things
according to confining walls.
© Maria Stadnicka, 2020