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.
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)
If you have a recipe you would like to share – and a picture of the meal once you’ve prepared it – why not submit it to be featured in my literature café? Tell me a little bit about yourself whilst you’re at it. Contact me in the comments box below or at joanbarbarasimon@yahoo, in the latter case with the reference: literature café.