Memory squirms under its scaly blanket. I recall the loveseat as a film looping the same frame.
Kid ankles in skipping motion. A glass jar to the brim with useless sand. Odd what I thought I’d prefer to cherish. My hand claws
against the too-small doorknob. My knees crash against the missing last stair.
The lepidopterist reaches for his pins to press the thorax to the cork
and suffers a moment before— is it really dead?
If I could just remember the shade of red in the fibers of my girlhood dress perhaps then the blame would rest.
Bullish roamers, some men. Take comfort in dry toast— it’s as it happened, not how the tongue has vouched.
And speech, too, has abandoned the stunted lisp. The tiny bones in my mouth I’ve cast off,
the disrespect of growth. Shame on her furs. Whip the fog that’s settled in. See
its self-adhering properties. Confuse the bowl-shaped
skull for a container.