how to forget

Her mind is a miner panning for gold.
She kneels in the riverbed, sluicing.

Water runs from higher ground,
cold as flood.

Fingering dull pebbles, 
she lets the senseless slip through,

the things she’d rather see go.
Her knuckles ache with the

unclenching, casting aside
heartbreak, rocks of remorse.

The pan is a shallow bowl.
She swirls the caviling gravel,

prospecting for shiny flecks,
memory’s precious metal.

© Tori Grant Welhouse