—I LOVE THEM SO MUCH, BUT WORDS NEVER SEEM TO DO THE THINGS I NEED THEM TO

 

 

“Would you really like to remember all of the things you lost?”—Yoko Ogawa, The Memory Police

 

 

                                                       Pressed

 

The memory police don’t show one morning, so I open each drawer, run my fingers across your secrets and satin bows, over cotton and silk, leather and linen.

Some items, light as gossamer, I press against my face delicately, as if they’re alive or sacred. Inhaling hard, I catch a whiff of fabric softener, but also faint traces of musk, tongue, and perfume.

Each slumped elastic sings an aria / sings Cohen and Dylan / sings Karen Carpenter / sings our contradictions and sad truths, reminders of when you were still near and touchable.

I find an un-used vibrator buried under bundled fists of nylons, hair-ties and running socks, my first poem there, too, pressed flat as a butterfly wing against a wood slat, faded lead looking like dried rice scattered upon the page without care.

Still, I can make out that it’s a poem about missing you, my heart full of hollow, something about walking in a cemetery where every headstone is unmarked, while I go on clutching a bouquet of lilies, holding the bunch out in front of me as if it’s a Geiger counter leading me, one rickety step after the next, toward you.