She drew blood daily, left with vials to count the growing white platelets, both of us filled with vigorous hatred for disgusting lonely girls. Memory Memory is the membrane holding the yolk to the egg. The cruel knock at the door. Life inside a life, laughing guard dangling keys under the single light, soft touch of the cheek, tap tap tap of a woodpecker's beak. Memory can lift you, mad, several feet above the ground, slap you into the next dream, or cany you on the pharoah's stretcher, godly and heavy as unwanted metal.
Memory hits the clear sea with silty water, intermingles with the breath of now.
It throws an old face onto a new one. Memory, the chicken's body, head left on the chopping block, runs the courtyard, sinew and bone shouting run. Memory startles and startles again. It is the goat in the thoroughbred's stall, calming and enlivening, the sharp crack of the sky, the shriek of the horse when the goat runs away.