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.

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