I have an obsession with memory. I love how she weaves herself throughout every layer of my being. I wouldn’t be human without her– the laughter, the tears, the tangled web of emotions. This prose poem was inspired by the beautiful poet, Rachel Eliza Griffiths, who also has quite a few pieces on memory and her relation to history. Enjoy.
Spirals and Coils
Memory lies in scents of vanilla, my mother taught me. I can see her in front of me, nude, dressing herself in 6am skies getting ready for work. Vanilla woke me up just in time to see the bright sapphire of the sky competing with the worn, flickering closet light bulb to smooth over her caramel curves. Vanilla is remembering what you want you can’t have.
Memory is seeing your father for the first time and seeing yourself. Memory is the ripple on flesh from the rigid edges of a blade or fourteen needles. Shades of vermillion, turquoise and sea foam green. I like the color lime green because I wore black for too long. Sometimes I remember my orgasms by color. She wears gold flakes that sparkle in fire under loose moonlight while sharp circles of sorbet orange envelop her, even the taste. She crawls between my legs and screams out my lovers’ names. Some names I cannot speak because memory is right around the corner.
I found memory in the cracks of my mirror. Between beauty and blood. In the morning, I dress myself and wear her around my neck like a 6ft scarf. Made of heavy wool. She delights herself on my smooth skin, roughly biting and kissing my neck. An embroidered necklace of amethyst and ruby. At night, I uncoil and unravel her, yet, somehow she has engraved herself in the fibers of my linens. She seeps through the roots of my coiled hair and I bow down to her in my dreaming.
If I’m by myself, it’s just me and her. She plays in my hair.
She’s flesh that won’t smooth over.
–Luecretia, the esoteric