Rewind by Amanda Woodard

art by Annie Spratt

Magical movies & sci-fi stories warn against

time travel, claiming butterflies have it out

for us. I’m supposed to say, Everything

happens for a reason & God’s will be done.

But the truth is: If there really was a God

who existed outside of time & prayers

were like wishes, I’d ask for the power

to pulverize your painful past

with my own shaking hands & hold it

out for you to blow away

like an eyelash. If God listened like you said

He did, I’d take the ashes of your trauma

to the beach where you grew up

so you could watch them be undone

by the wind or disappeared by the gleam

of the sunlight. If forgiveness was born

of sacrifice, I’d spill our shared

blood & rub the salt of your childhood into my

wounds so they could sting & heal & scar

& then I could forgive myself for being

ashamed of you. If I could pass through you

like the holy ghost, I’d reach into your chest

& cradle that childlike, pure part of you & plant it

in the new skin your memories made in me,

water it with my own eyes so you’d never

cry & I’d make us into different people

altogether. We’d be so loved, so disgustingly

lousy with love, we’d be boring; each Christmas

filled with family who only touch to hug;

our lives, so abundant & blessed, absolutely

no one would write about us.

Amanda Woodard is a freelance poet, essayist and ghostwriter, and an MFA candidate at Antioch University. She studied Social Science and Journalism at the University of North Texas and attended writing workshops at the Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference and Writing Workshops Dallas. Her work has been performed in Oral Fixation and published in Ten Spurseris & eros and Cathexis Northwest Press.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s