Sear

History repeats itself, skippinglike a broken cassette, slimreels torn from the gut                    and suddenly, gone. Nothing exists                    unless somebody writes it, folds it                    between fingers like origami swans,pressed against pages,                    smothered between voices,                    between tongues, behind                    teeth. Mama saysshe won’t go back to him,                    to his pink ginger skin that savored                    of bitterness but still, cleansed her palette                    so well. She grinds the pepper, burns brittle sage,says, history won’t repeat itself,                    as she traces a continent                    across my bruised-plum skin,                    where his fingers last touched, wherehe made history bleed in color;                    snaking blue capillaries,                    snickering red welts. She burns                    the edges. Nothing exists unlessyou write it, her quick hands a cool fog                    lifting over the bowl. Brings                    him to a sear, simmered cold                    inside, shreds himwith the grater, piece by piece,scalds him blackin her fire.