Living Room

let’s build a room called memory & not call it that.
let’s call it a living room so it can breathe, so it can sit still
       without being accused of mourning. there should be a woman
       standing in the center with golden wings—no, not wings, just
the light catching her shoulders right, just the way she refuses
to bend under what she carries. don’t make this a museum. in
       your version, everything is quiet, roped off, labeled, untouchable.
       nah. in this room the martyrs hang like lace—king, kennedy, x—
their faces soft on silk, silver-fringed, moving whenever the fan
turns its head. they are not gone. they are just above us. there has
       to be a couch. a floral one. a place where somebody sits & looks
       up & remembers without saying remember. i want a banner on
the wall that says in memory of… but never finishes the sentence.
because the sentence never finishes. don’t let history make this
       room heavy. i don’t want grief nailed into every corner. i want
       greens on the stove. i want a hand that can season & dust in the
same motion. i want memory to feel like something you tend,
not something that crushes you. there should be a “lost boy”
       somewhere (not lost) just glittered, just shining
       in a way that makes you look twice. i want a scroll on the wall
that nobody reads out loud but everybody follows. don’t turn
this into a lesson. don’t turn this into a speech about suffering.
       this room is not for explaining. this room is for keeping. i want
       the frames wiped clean every morning. i want the names to stay
where they are placed. i want the dead to sit with us without
being called dead. this is not about loss. this is not about what
       was taken. this is about what remains. & no one leaves the
       room. & no one takes the pictures down. & no one forgets.