ἐν δορὶ μέν μοι μᾶζα μεμαγμένη, ἐν δορὶ δ' οἶνος
Ἰσμαρικός, πίνω δ' ἐν δορὶ κεκλιμένος.
In my spear there is baked bread, in my spear there is wine
from Ismaros, and leaning on my spear I drink.
On my computer, there are mp3s
of lectures from four years of college;
the major Mozart violin sonatas
with piano parts in PDF;
JPEGs of the backyard of my parents
in six successive snowy winters.
On my laptop, there is a hoard of JSTOR
articles I'll never read,
as well as scans of Foucault's major works
and Illusions perdues in French.
My fourth-grade essay on Charles Lindbergh's life
in old .doc format sits subfoldered, as does
a self-instruction manual for Gregg shorthand
and Bessie Smith singing "That Evening Sun."
I swear that there is no pornography
(but you probably don't believe me).
On my laptop, there's the worst thing I ever wrote
and the best thing I ever wrote,
the things I wanted to save and the things I wanted
to lose, the things that I no longer
need, but which would take much longer
to delete than keep. (In my laptop,
there are crumbs of cookies I ate while typing,
and other things that are hard to admit.)
Bank statements, too. I zip it up in a sleeve
and carry it from place to place.