There Is No Memory…

of killing a crayfish between two rocks on the banks of Fishing Creek. Later, our mother would find me examining it, “how could you do that to a living thing.” I never was a violent child, as you know, just curious about small and intricate things. It was the first time I understood what it meant to die and to live.

You must know what it’s like to be that crayfish, so close to death at the hands of someone or something unable to grasp your meaning. I watch you sleep, eyes twitch beneath purple eyelids, darkened from the contents of your young and spoiled life. I imagine you dream of worlds too frightening to wake up to.

Perhaps it is the world I have created for you—a kingdom of rainbow trout, rope swings and cigarettes.

For a moment, I almost squeeze your arm to ensure you are awake.

Souvenir

The streets of LaRambla pulse with the inception of June—

vendors selling red and pink roses wilting in any presence but our own

prostitutes crouching between marble pillars

Tonight I am new again

for this, I thank you

There is no memory that completes me now—

the stiffness of sea salt and midnight paella

your white cotton shirt I once unbuttoned

the game we played through the hallowing streets

catch me if you can

the plaza where protesters slept off their lazy violence

your fingers in my mouth

I wonder how many women you have lingered with and if you keep postcards to remember

I watched the vines of your tattoo grow from your shoulder and into my chest

where a cornucopia rests and is replenished

there was no dream before you

now I rest my feet in a bed of pins

 

(Alexandtra Troxell, in Shaking Thoughts)

 

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