:: the w(hole) story ::

:: back to brooklyn / saturday on the C train ::

It seemed the train had stopped,

but a concentrated look through the window proved we were inching.

Listening to music, I am a distracted eavesdropper,

simultaneously thinking of that time you thought Neil Diamond said ‘Reverend Blue Jeans’

and more recently, Death Cab’s ‘Poor Little Television.’

 

I am supposed to be thinking about whether I’d like you 

to take me to therapy or out on a second first date. 

We slow again, and I consider the terminal velocity of two trains

moving exponentially away from this point of passing.

Turning the music back on, a soundtrack, my life in film form.

I always thought the lyrics to this one were, ‘Are we the way I want to go.’

 

Held at the station,  I reconsider my assignment.

The second to last stop knew us once.

There, the specific curve of your pinky toe is photographic.  

Much of the rest escapes me.

:: theoretical letter to my ex-boyfriend after spending the night together ::

Resisting your familiarity, the color of bruises,

you return to my senses like a trace mineral.

 

I level my gut response to your flawless face

while making up the bed. I am inevitable flight.

I tuck things into corners,

content knowing exactly where I left you.

 

Putting on my jacket, I hold my shirt sleeves so they don’t slip.

Some things cannot be unlearned.

 

:: the memory of an elephant ::

Bending over to stretch this morning,

touching my toes, I sink

deep into the grey shag of the bathroom rug.

They say elephants have impeccable memory

though it’s often the painful ones they keep.

 

I remember my mother loosening ice cubes

from the freezer tray

standing in the kitchen, twisting the plastic

from end to end, hearing the ice crack and sizzle,

pop—

we’d inevitably lose one to the floor, 

but it was okay— we were used to losing.

A year-old wishbone is a resident in my own kitchen,

rescued from the cavity of a chicken dinner.

I’m positive that leaving it intact is, no doubt, 

strategy.

 

Still upside down, my eyes meet the plum-roundness of kneecaps

and the above-lying skin, folded in half moons 

tiny tributary wrinkles, smiles and frowns

just like an elephant’s

just like my mother’s

 

and I know 

that we both

choose what to remember,

learn what to forget.

:: and I go fishing back to sleep ::

How much of you is memory

sticking to my fingers?

The air smells of static

and my mind has you curated, a mosquito in amber.

My pillow feels big as a toothache,

a foot asleep.

I hold my cat like a baby,

and my kid sprawls across me 

like a feline.

We occupy a small portion of this queen size bed

to leave room for everything else.