Thoughts from a Thinking Girl

I unstitch action from actor, dismantle memories’ timeline,

embellish with treasured beads idly trifling my fingers,

wrap it in a simple shawl of humility, bury it in the fertile soil

of a poem until I can no longer distinguish

what happened from what was written.

For the sake of a line, I suck clean the meaty marrow

of moments, spread it like butter of the gods on meager

toast. I decompose flesh, collagen, skin (yours),

blood, brain, eyes (mine),

leaving dry bones, hair askew, the teeth

of the matter.

The process takes on its own cadence, meaning self-digested.

Ever-present gut acid breaks down cells of reliability,

truth liquifies, seeps out through orifices once used

to perceive the world, the soft tissue that connected visceral

sensations has been ingested or carried away,

a few words splayed on the page hint at the lived

life, hold their own secret.

Embalmed remembrance, cloaked in poem’s prayer,

buried in the cloud, there is no way to find

your grave, nothing on which to place a visitation stone.