It was not meant to hurt.
It had been made for happy remembering
By people who were still too young
To have learned about memory.
Now it is a dangerous weapon, a time-bomb,
Which is a kind of body-bomb, long term too.
Only film, a few frames of you skipping, a few seconds,
You aged about ten there, skipping and still skipping.
Not very clear grey, made out of mist and smudge,
This thing has a fine fuse, less a fuse
Than a wavelength attuned, an electronic detonator
To what lies in your grave inside us.
And how that explosion would hurt
Is not just an idea of horror but a flash of fine sweat
Over the skin-surface, a bracing of nerves
For something that has already happened.
It had been made for happy remembering
By people who were still too young
To have learned about memory.
Now it is a dangerous weapon, a time-bomb,
Which is a kind of body-bomb, long term too.
Only film, a few frames of you skipping, a few seconds,
You aged about ten there, skipping and still skipping.
Not very clear grey, made out of mist and smudge,
This thing has a fine fuse, less a fuse
Than a wavelength attuned, an electronic detonator
To what lies in your grave inside us.
And how that explosion would hurt
Is not just an idea of horror but a flash of fine sweat
Over the skin-surface, a bracing of nerves
For something that has already happened.
(in Birthday Letters, Faber and Faber, 1998)
