I want to keep these flashes snug,
protected in the blanket
of the warm August nights
from whence they emerged.
Windows down, Rick Astley blaring,
you demanding that I listen, listen to
my God. Majestic.
Bigger than the man,
bigger than this whole summer.
Has it been six years since I heard from you?
I stopped trying to glean meaning
from those final messages long ago,
maybe the Year of Our Lord 2009,
around the time I curled into a ball
on the living room floor, making
the most unholy noises,
grieving my own projected losses.
None of them came to fruition.
In case you were wondering.
Where are you, I wonder,
other than right here
in this corner of my limbic attic,
firing away at random,
bringing you to me in the middle of Panera Bread.
Where are you, really, other than in my memories?
I’m dealing so much with memory now, Keith.
It’s all I can think about.
There are proteins which can destroy them, memories.
Proteins banding together to make you forget all of the things that made you.
I pray nightly to Something Out There that they won’t get mine.
To lose you again, and not even realize it.
Come back. Stay.
say, in this scene, you’ve caught something
you missed the first eight times
you’ve played it. there’s something
carved into the bench at
Sullivan Square Station
as you’re sitting there, sobbing
(were you sobbing? or just sitting there, stunned, because it happened even though you knew it would happen, stunned because he didn’t run after you. stupefied?)
(was it january?)
and whatever it is, it’s angular, jagged,
inflicted on the bench with something
not quite sharp enough.
it’s deep in there, but not so deep that time and climate
won’t rub it away. what does it say? that’s for the next viewing.
I’ve got that heavy knot in my gut
telling me I fucked up, I know it,
everyone knows it, but
I don’t know what I did.
I can’t remember. All I have
is that feeling, something trying
to crawl up from my intestines
and hang from my vocal cords,
choking back a mystery apology.
You’re so good at telling me
everything I’ve done wrong.
Tell me now. Tell me
so I can go nine rounds with myself,
get my slacker ass on the ropes
and go for the KO, slam this
imperfection from my system.
Tell me so I’m not forced to
waterboard my memory
for false confessions and
sputtered out between
cracked lips and
Shuffle my neurons and
find some plausible lie
to explain this writhing,
sickness in my stomach.
I’m sure you’ll be right.
I can’t bring myself to bag it
and push it to the back of the vault.
There are fresher deaths
to be interred,
but this is the one I want to keep
hauling out, the one that
won’t stay buried.
She drops memories like tiny
shits behind her where she
walks, a trail of small,
hard excess condensed into
pellets and buried beneath
her bedding at dusk. And
when she wakes, aroused
by tunes, or the crinkled
sound of sunburnt prunes,
the rest of her remembers
in its actions — thumbless
hands supporting chins,
the precious cuddling of
dust upon her pelt, the
endless fights for sustenance
against her sibling rival.
But still there’s something
missing in her muscles
when she sleeps, the only
thing remembering the warmth
her mind won’t keep.
Posted in memoir, poetry
Tagged chinchilla, crepuscular, dustbath pedroia, dustbaths, dustin pedroia, memorial, memory, monday, pedey, pedroia, pets, poetry, raisins, red sox, rest in peace, rip, yubnub