Seattle 21, or Poem Draft 1

Memory lives under my shoulder blades.
She came to me with a backpack with a broken zipper
and a single quilt square.
At night, she wanders, restless and unsupervised,
looking for the rest of the pieces.

She sits on my foot and howls,
clinging to my skirt with sticky hands.

Memory thinks it's fun to hide
at the bottom of the stairs, in cupboards,
showers, car seats, behind couch cushions
and shout when I least expect it.

Memory dances a distraction
when I am trying to break habits
and other people's hearts.

She feeds me the names of my
great-grandmothers for lunch,
interrupts my conversations
with last summer's lovers
and questions about duck ponds.

When she runs out of my sight,
I am paralyzed. I bellow,
trying to sound more angry than afraid,
wait for some splinter of her
to come back into view.

I forgive her once she's in my arms again,
tired, a weight I carry on my hips.
She lets her nose run into my sleeve.

Wherever I go, I make her a place to rest,
to play. Make sure she's nourished,
alert, never left alone.

My family turns to me, her keeper,
like most people turn to librarians
or encyclopedias.
This happens at funerals, holidays,
near birthdays,
on Sunday afternoons.

I am also her translator.
She is more monkey than stone,
more smoke than wood,
more wail than speech.

But she’s also more home than my walls, my skin.




(looking for comments - especially on that ending. yech. tell me what works, what you like about it. and tell me how you think it can be fixed or futzed with.)