Ink

First, in the memory: you.

In the memory you and I,

 

the couch and the deep

green ink you poured

 

from the jar to my stomach,

cascade shades of algae

 

and seaweed. In the memory

that jar’s lip tipped

 

to spill like water

over a falls. In the memory

 

us. You reaching into that pool

of stain and pushing

 

the ink up to my neck,

me arching my back

 

to your chest, rivulets running,

thin bodies of ink running

 

like snakes down my waist.

In the memory you and me.

 

In the memory you and me

in a thriving green snarl

 

on the couch. In the memory,

memory, like the room’s third

 

person, stands off to the side,

catches what I couldn’t have seen

 

in my face, in my thoughts.

In the memory I think of memory

 

as a rock with real edges,

and I am both right and wrong.

 

I see us hard in the making,

I see us with force, the pen

 

of your finger circling

my breast. In the memory

 

even after bathing my body

is a new story, the ink

 

and my memory spreading

and fading through scrub.

 

I see now that this is how

memory works: not rigid

 

but bent and all-angled

yielding, lightened but lasting,

 

you and I swimming

in a pool of green thriving.