(for M)
If
some things are worth forgetting, some things
are
certainly worth remembering as well. What haunts me:
I used to know how to read a map.
My hair.
My inability to contain
I used to know how to administer
oxygen.
My enthusiasm
I used to know how to tell time.
The gaps in the narrative
If
I could I would forget for you. The pleasure of shifting—
I
could have imagined us into existence—the pleasure
of
admitting when darkness comes; it may never...
it
may never be light again.
What haunts me?
If
I could, before the darkness creeps in, I would touch everything: the pleasure
of
forward motion. A crookedness that pricks, the miracle
already
given away.
I used to know how to look in the
mirror.
I used to know how to spell my name.
I used to know how
to open a book without cracking the spine.
If
some things are worth forgiving, some things
depend
entirely—my reluctance, my enthusiasm, why I love this stupid song—on the gaps
in
the narrative. The way your gaze disarms me and the exclamation of cloud. Sigh.
I
rest in uncertainty, if only for the moment.
