Self-Portrait as Forgetting

Issue 7 | Winter 2021 |



In the sketchbook marriage
apologies never come to diminish
the catalog of bone.

Instead our chipped teacups
are steeped to coal.

Topaz ghosts won’t stay behind
in their gauzed rooms.

I go where I can press my feet
to the grainy sand

where a light mist bracelets mistakes
and shimmies the boundless water
that blue-thirsts for me—
(or have I just imagined being remembered?)

my smallness rhythmed
against sea-song’s infinite loop

the circle-winged skirts insisting
I am at the forgetting precipice
and won’t hold back.