In a briefly read history of death
We would encounter memories.
A pair of bookish eyes squinted
In keyhole at the hallway’s end.

Memories are lies tucked to bed
Like kids, to sleep before demon
Gets them in old grandma story,
A grave you search by a memory.

We have the demon in our books
Walking our hallways, in books
We read in universities we miss.
Our death lies in books we read.

Books are lies we hold in bodies,
Memories we hold of a first hue,
Their textures rapidly changing
Like our truths we hold so dear.

(reading A brief History of Death by Nir Baram in the New Yorker )

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