How do memories actually slip in,

congealing as live cells,

breathing and pulsating on their own?

Try as you might,

none of them can ever be found

no matter how meticulous you comb through

cavities of the heart where in myth

anything you can’t stash away escapes.

Incredulous thought, of course—

an organ the size of your fist can’t

possibly compress into points as invisible

as unnamed stars these heaving live cells.

What about the brain,

in whose recesses and pools colliding stars falling

in millennium bits of light, moments

as deep as the unseen edges of the universe are known

to be reflected?

Even more incredulous—this

organ the size of half a ciabatta floating on water

can’t possibly breed the universe.

What then do you suppose

happen to moments at the instant

of birth, who gives birth to them anyway,

when they turn into memories?

Metamorphose perhaps

into phantom cells, molecules

you carry about weightless until

you coax them into being. Only then

do they dance before your eyes or rush in

to bruise your heart.    

Posted 10.08.08