WANDERLUST AND THE DISSONANCE OF MEMORY

emerging, I tap the window of a train journey
and take up a rhythm of strangers’ realities: 
            harvesting fields, rusting trucks, milking cows, 
                        fading graffiti, against the monumental
                                   speed of the landscape; a sound/word forms
                                                photographic elegy and the self develops into
                                                            fragments across time, beyond imagination, but
                                                                        living inside memory

listening, a lecture in a border-town that
cognitive scientists now believe a mother’s memories
             can be imprinted onto the child she is carrying, so
                        we actually spread our culture through the blood
                                    bond and inherit our respect and revenge like
                                                sympathisers from the House of Atreus, I marvel
                                                            that it has taken thousands of years for science to
                                                                         catch up to myth

waving, who puts a ring around my finger but
memory? first—the engagement of my parents, 
              second—a gift shared between my grandmother
                         and her sisters, now legacy, third—a twisted
                                    courtyard pattern recalling my grandfather’s
                                                landscapes in genetics; I carry their memories on my
                                                            hands beyond family heirloom, one not lived but
                                                                           inscribed

orbiting, I create a partial vacuum, the turning
             of a dial, the flex of a pedal, the vocal; 
             this persistence of sound after sound, craft made
                          music; I look down to the Park Stage, 
                                     the grass damp with sweat’s imprint and rain’s
                                                recall, the sky turns palimpsest as the minutes pass, 
                                                             written cobalt, indigo, slate, black, exquisite and
                                                                            memory-fusing


SK GROUT grew up in Auckland, New Zealand and has lived in Frankfurt, Germany and Norwich, England. She currently lives in London. Her work appears in Landfall, Aesthetica Magazine, The Interpreter’s House, and elsewhere. Wanderlust, eco-living, social justice, queer love stories and writing remain priorities of her life. These topics fill most of her twittering at @indeskidge.