What is it, to remember nothing, of what one loved?
—Chen Chen

Women tell me it’s hormones or lack or age
or stress, but I know a virus chewed up bits
of my brain. Bruce got stung by a wasp, chewed
up a plantain as poultice. I was right there when
it happened and knew none of this: the hive
beneath the stairs, the howl, the healing weed.
Was I there and forgot? I was there but not.
I started a diary of all the things I forget
to help me remember: water the lawn, shut off
the car, Jamie’s name, keys, phone, lights, pants . . .
but after that, I forgot to write them down.
My sister has vivid memories I don’t recall
which makes us angry for different reasons.
And the things I want to forget, I can’t:
the boy who pinched my boob in 7th grade,
emergency rooms and death rattle,
a father’s hands reaching to choke,
tiny hands pushing.
One night my friends spent too much time
laughing at my expense: when my leg caught
fire and I rolled the snow bank
to put myself out, when I fell off the bar stool
or forgot the punch line. I laugh with them
but they tease a ghost. I guess
what I’m trying to say is No. No. I don’t know.
I guess what I’m trying to say is memory
is a waking dream, a chicken bone
I’m trying to salvage for soup. On good days,
white pelicans dancing in a blue, blue sky,
so beautiful but just out of reach.

Cathryn Cofell is an Appleton poet with two full full-length collections including Stick Figure With Skirt, winner of the 2019 Main Street Rag Poetry Award, six chapbooks, and a music/poetry CD called Lip. She’s currently Co-President of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets and PR Maven for the Poetry Unlocked reading series. www.cathryncofell.com