Writing history

Is like making a skin of glass

For a drum—

To let the wet sand flow

And sculpt it’s denial with your fingers.

Make it as thin as possible,

But never infirm,

Or without consequence.

To smooth out the inconsistencies

In memory, temper the ecstacies

Of anger and awe alike;

And thus, the historian’s hand

Keeps searching.

A voice stabs

At the spectre of nuance

As fingers tremble

And keep on working.

Never a complete yield,

Yet you keep listening

For the voice of causality.