History used to mean something, rooted, grounded in
facts and stories, even when cultures twisted them.
Love had teeth and art had meaning then—
or maybe that's just nostalgia for a time that hasn't been,
a time described to us, taught to us, planted in us
in hopes that it would root and grow in us
and thereby become reality,
no longer a false history but an honest future.
Days before and days past are but a single wheel, true,
but time cares nothing for such nostalgic nonsense;
no, the wheel spins even when we weave a history
that never existed, paint it with spirits and colors
that never existed, convince ourselves of the wonder of a world
that never existed,
because when we cannot remember our mistakes,
when we cannot speak to our children of our failures
and the reparations our failures demand,
we abandon our children and their children
to spin untethered, ungrounded,
and our past—the one of facts
and teeth, the one we ignored—
stands over our tombs,
haunting our deaths with its life,
taunting, for we gave it life
again.