04/23/20 Workshop 1

I remember when the earth was cold,

absent in its shelter,

an aged orb

wan in a shuddering light –

I remember that the last thing

you wanted to face was

the world,

and you were hungry.

I remember rain

without delicate touch;

that a cat wandered through

and you could not imagine the world with anything but distance.

I remember all the lights

on, as you kept reaching out

for an ineffable fix

to what you know,

but you hoped

was not, broken.

I remember you thought you were

almost young

but old enough

to forget,

here and there,

how to remember.

I remember all the hope

we kept

in our fear,

and all the fear

that spread out

at each summoning of hope.

I remember not being allowed

to stand with certainty;

I remember that there was nothing

but tomorrow,

and tomorrow was always

another day away;

I remember you

and I remember how tragically

you tried to imagine me.

I remember the orange peel

crusting on the table – you thought

it was death – ain’t it strange

how death can be confused with perfume,

what remains in the room after the guest of honor

has gone home with a more mysterious

casualty of danger;

the awkwardness of last contact

with the first line

of a song;

and you were tired

for the call to go on,

and then go on again,

a little more,

past the stop