Gutle Schnaper's Topographic Memory Bank

The house on Judengasse
where she has lived
for ninety six years:

a smart calèche adorned
with blue silk; a footman in blue
livery greets you at the door.

Frail now, she allows me
to kiss her hand, her sons
(those discreet inheritors)

stand not-so-discreetly
to one side. Today memories
are her currency of choice -

"flakes of gold harvested from
life's storm." She stores them
in her cellar, invests on the

future-memory market. "Please"
she says (so charming, still)
"feel free to look around."

A map of the world hangs from a wall;
a bridal wreath is preserved
beneath a cove of glass.

My memories, I say, are precious
and she laughs - assures me of a good
rate of interest.

"Memories are life insurance
to be cashed in old age".
Her sons nod in agreement.

It is true, they say:
our final years
can be a lonely place.

Frau Schnaper and her boys
are the bankers of the world,
blessed with the gift of transmutation,

shaping the unconscious
of generations to come. Like a
magician she extracts

my treasure, seals
the cask with a code
known only to her.

In the coming years my
memories will multiply tenfold.
It will be so. Frau Schnaper has decreed it.

The cellar door is locked and my gold
flakes disappear: bridal wreaths
preserved under coves of glass.