On Memory

Not the fire,

but the smell of hair burning. Not the hand,

but the magnetic hum

before it strikes. Not her death,

but the apricot jam

never opened. Not the kiss,

but the Ferris wheel

and the goat. Not the party,

but what happened

in the parking lot. Not the stars,

but 4 a.m.,

a skateboard. Not the crying,

but the loneliness

of board games. Not the eulogy,

but the caterpillar

and the shoe. Not the hospital,

but the needle, the lung,

macaroni. Not the sex,

but the whimper

and the window. Not the glass,

but the us

that was shattering. Not November,

but all of

this lidocaine.