Thoughts on Time at Age 28

The soap on my fork tastes like my grandma’s kitchen

where I stood at age 7 

cutting a clipping for the scrapbook 

of my ageless consciousness

I’ve held scissors cutting and pasting moments, 

so I can consider from behind and in front

age 7 and 28 and 90 and unborn and dead and eternal

at once

and rearrange their order

to create a scatterplot of memories

without any linear correlation

like that day in my Old Navy tank top

with feet pressed on the linoleum squares 

that held my grandparents dancing feet

and locked hands

sailing across intersecting lines

of their life 

            and Czech music 

            and their dead parents 

            and alive grandchildren 

            and my scrapbook clipping of their kitchen

    that represents my youth

    as much as my death

    as much as the remembering

there is no distinction in time

in our intersecting lines

when clippings on the scrapbook page