Maybe if I had the careful slink of silk between my fingers,
Or the color of the horizon before last light,
I could make you understand that
There are places that have held me
And places I have held,
And hollowed spaces where my body breathed awhile,
And none of them will be the same
When I pull off these old shoes
And track back through.
Can you hear that?
Let me take you where I am:
My hand on the cold window, before the curtains were hung,
The smell of still-wet paint, like a band aid on the sunken apartment,
The last time I saw a songbird, it was November, I am not brave,
The salt of a tear tracked to my lips because everything has become far,
The way my arms cross over my chest in a self holding, a poor approximation,
How else can I teach you my memory,
the way it ripples at the edges?