The Tilting Barn of Memory

"At the Post Office"

The line is long, processional, glacial,

and the attendant a giant stone, cobalt blue

with flecks of white, I’m not so much

looking at a rock but a slab of night.

The stone asks if anything inside the package

is perishable. When I say no the stone

laughs, muted thunderclap, meaning

everything decays, not just fruit

or cut flowers, but paper, ink, the CD

I burned with music, and my friend

waiting to hear the songs, some little joy

after chemo eroded the tumor. I know flesh

is temporary, and memory a tilting barn

the elements dismantle nail by nail.

I know the stone knows a millennia of rain

and wind will even grind away

his ragged face, and all of this slow erasing

is just a prelude to when the swelling

universe burns out, goes dark, holds

nothing but black holes, the bones of stars

and planets, a vast silence. The stone

is stone-faced. The stone asks how soon

I want the package delivered. As fast

as possible, I say, then start counting the days.

~ David Hernandez

I took the photograph at a farm that has since disappeared into memory.