When You Let Yourself Remember

Each summons the next

as a trick handkerchief

from the illusionist’s pocket:

a tether of befores and afters

strung together in tight knots

tumbling into light.

They slither out

silky quick, slick and slack,

to puddle on carpet

an infinite pool

a satiny nightgown he lifts

over your head and tosses

carelessly to corners

to steal your breath and catch

your eye as his skin covers

yours. You count folds of blue

waves on endless

oceans of nowhere and not-here

while fabric of his open pants

chafes your thighs into pink

marshmallows. You chew

your tongue so screams never

fall out, unraveling.

You make a fist, make a mouth

with your thumb and finger and press

the first limp edge back inside, then

next and next until you’ve

swallowed it all and Abracadabra!

you open your hand.

Empty.

Do not

let your silence convince you

the illusionist’s world is real.

It’s only a trick after all.

Truth was always already

tumbling out, just as you are

falling now out of the pocket

of today into yesterdays all knotted

up in endless processions of color.

Do not let yourself get tangled

in thirty years of knots.

Do not be ashamed

your body twitches away when

someone brushes the edge of

you. Let bruises

hurt. Let nightmares

haunt and horrify. They are only

souvenirs, tokens and traces,

faulty synapses firing

past into present.

Now you see clearly,

grab the chain’s end

drape the silk around you

let memories fly

flags, badges, blue ribbons.

Be proud of your scraps. Carry them

gently. They held you back

once. Now you hold them.

Look. Your hands are

full.