We say we want the truth, but we also
say that history is written by the victors
And I know I'm not alone in a little gloss sewn
into the edges of my tellings. So, to lectors
At the podium, what's the memory we speak?
Do we aim for unvarnished truth, glazing eyes
of undergraduates, and all strained, stern, bleak
The story without a destiny, without a prize
Just molecules smashing painfully against the walls
And memory is only what happened, how nothing rises
no path converges long, or do we speak a little tall
About the things we think the ancestors advise us
About the way to walk the tale we're meant to keep
Call back, again to myths that whisper in our sleep?