The Way Memory Works

A wide window
faces the Silverlake Reservoir,
the french doors are closed.
There is the official narrative
and the unofficial one
I try to write them all.
In my friend's light blue room
a portrait of a woman's body
orange, blue, and brown,
waits with me.

She fed me before Santa Monica:
gin in a perfect round glass,
a warm sandwich
to keep me,
steady for the night.
But memory loves what it can feel,
seeks boundaries to cross
prefers the place
between knowing and letting go,
so I did.

We stopped three times.
On the drive home
three years left my body, empty.
I thought about my students,
and how I'll miss them.
About how the world moves
like wind through your body,
stirring forgotten memories and
unfinished sentences,
making them mean something
in the dark.