Memory

Kate Dusenbery

 

I circle you, I remember, I hug you to me, I hug my memory. I love my memory. I lo ve the past. Circle it over and over, turn it around and over, caress the embossed back of your memory, it resides one of your lobes, organized by necessity to the back where it only sees the light once in awhile. A baby born babys breath a life long lantern born without wings born without mind a space open inside a hearth a womb a cavern brain is born in heart lungs and wind

 

I still make love with memory. I hold it over a steaming kettle, try to open it to reveal its contents. I dye it Easter egg colors and hang it out to dry with the tie dyed blankets. I auction memories on EBay and believe me, some of mine get some pretty good bids. Not that I’ll ever sell.

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Sweet stone silence in the dead of night. In the morning there is much chirping screaming really sometimes I don’t know what they scream so loudly about. Bird memories are their bones open and brittle hollow things suitable for flight. The best worm the best littlest bug we’ve ever seen, a succulent bug, birdbrothers.

 

Smooth agate columns line my thoughts. Corinthian tops hang over as memory is stooped by the weight of subconscious. Memory the scaffold the bridge the arches the light. Darkness is most of the time. Darkness is most of the mind. Blue spaces between open and open cerulean dreams on top of phot ographs of Campari ads Farrah Fawcett bassinetts DeeLite college roommates Marilyn M the northern coast of Japan the nightclubs of Vegas the idiosyncracies of dawn the canyons the valleys the mountains the sea. All of it layered in fish scales iridescent on one side blue. The other side remains to be.

 

 

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