APRIL #10: Concealed

My diaries have been tied
with ribbon and sealed
with wax and buried
in a metal box in the garden.
photographs have been burned.
I washed the clothes
I wore that year
in clorox and gave them
to Goodwill. Only two
people who knew me
then are still alive.  One
is in solitary, undisclosed.
The other lives abroad,
unnamed. Funny how
the past disappears,
how one can buy
eggs and bread,
pick up the mail,
watch old movies.

How nobody remembers.
How nobody guessed.

A prompt poem.


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