Violent, orangeblack hell on earth
thrashing and swirling--
eating, chewing, spitting out
all in its path,
leaving behind digested
ash memories.

Memories charred and mangled
like the old house
where they happened.

It boils the blue-striped wallpaper
in the nursery
where baby’s first steps were taken
after some serious determination.

Shrivels and contorts the musty pages of the Bible
that Mom read to the kids every night
as they dozed off by her side.

Liquefies scrapbooks of Fourth of July block parties
where Dad played James Taylor for the kids
in the living room into the wee hours (ten p.m.).
They swore
He was famous.

A team of courageous men
work tirelessly to tame the infernal beast--
dowsing it with water
with hope
with prayer
that just maybe
they might save the house
and what is left of the memories
within it.

But not without retaliation.
The fiery wind screams in rage,
engulfing the upper bedroom of the house,
where the last of the memories lie
within a petrified, brittle old man.

As he reaches for the ashy Bible
that had once put him to sleep
so many times,
he moans for salvation,
squeaks out for help,
begs for life.

But he is drowned out
by the unforgiving roar
of the Memory-Eater.