Today I want to remember, but remember
beyond mere recognition. To break
the chain that holds the gate in place,
that keeps these soggy woods soggy
under a ponderous gray sky. Where
is the props man? Have him haul up
that sky and lower one in a more
pleasing color: multi-flora. You have
no idea what it takes to sustain
this effort, to remember (I carry
four flesh stumps held to a piece
of gauze by the silver prong
of a safety pin). Tip the bucket
over, let the little stippled fish
swim to the moon. Take it back,
clean its insides of kelp
and constricted tissue. Use it as
a cup from which to drink today
like a woman who isn’t a mother:
just a woman, just a girl who wants
to sit in this chair with no need
to get up real soon, who wants warm
light to love all of her back, who
wants a sip of cold clear water.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.