Memory #1
I had a memory
that was not real
or maybe it was
that flashed like lighthouse beacons
in my peripheral vision.
Crouched on the eighth step from the top
in our family home,
coarse fibres from the carpet pricked through black leggings
and made imprints on my knees -
like the surface of a walnut.
Head tilted 45 degrees east,
I peered through the white spindles -
a bird to the view of the scene below.
You were underneath the alarm, just out of arm’s reach
but within his arms that did reach
hands reach
hands grab
the way men’s hands do
clasp
grip
around
your
n
e
c
k
You have no face
and neither does he
both ghosts
or storefront mannequins with mouths that gaped and radiated toxic waste,
skin that reddened and blistered with hate,
nails that clawed and raked.
Voices made for whispers of sweet nothings
and bedtime fairy stories
reached harsh crescendos
and choked
without warning.
A head capped with a bald spot.
A polka dot dressing gown stained with vomit and baked beans.
