Cheap Ink

locked tight until touched,
memory blossoms in rage.

just a pinprick sets off
caloric surprises, each new find
bursting into view.

poke a hole here and
find warmed-over mashed
potatoes, served by grandma
to her kids long dead.

accidents occur and probes
retouch photos of dead smiles,
each child renewed by soft light.

downtime means a lamp,
a radio and the urge
to go back.

that hopeless history
seems softer now, the crinkled
metal, the sounds of pain,
all gone.

these photocopies
might be displayed
on white walls, with other
sons, other daughters, filing by,
remembering too.

the lost dead children smile
again before the cheap ink
fades.