Quieted Memories

Many moons ago

I promised someone that I would learn how to say

“I love you”

in a dozen languages,

in return

she’d learn to love herself.



I got halfway there

and she’s never been further.



I once knew a woman,

seventeen and beautiful

hair streaming in confetti paper

opened up books like camera lenses and mirrors

cried at the moon just before every full one –

just to make sure it knew who was boss,

and

in case you cannot figure it out

it’s her.



That was a while ago

hair now baked into a bun

eyes caked over

and fingers jammed

after pressing too many of her own buttons.

I saw her the other day

still beautiful

still wanting to suck marrow

out of any wayfaring bone

but I feel like she might not have been able

to find one

recently,

or for a while.

Stuck gnawing on finger nails

and the rewind button.



She had to have cracked her mirror by now

I know she has

she has the knuckles to prove it.



When the clock tolls twelve

she flinches,

especially when it was the darker of the two

the one where door’s creaked

open

and bed sheets were jostled

‘til father was happy.

She always filled up his hip flask

she used to joke

until I realized

what that really meant.

Knowing that

those tattoos were permanent

if never physical.



I promised her that one day I’d love her again,

six years later I did

learning my sixth way to say love

as I pressed raisins into wine

and

knew how it felt to press skin into knife.



Six years later

I found that love

between the lips of another truth

and the nape of a once held false.



Spooning cookie dough

onto another prepared memory

just to bake it into submission

serve it to a crowd

and hope that they can still taste

her emptiness

in that recipe.



So

I raise a glass of homemade wine to the sky

and pray that someone will muddle her skin into

something a bit stronger

than mache

and be less menacing

than her tiger tattoo.



She’ll still etch her warrior paint

onto eyelids

crank out more pastries than goddesses

and still bounce her temple

to another chill.

I’ll still etch my ink blots

onto bare chests

crank out more nage than gods

and still bounce my temple

to another chill.



Every now and again

I see her aching

abs split in two

hoping her spleen will eat her liver

hoping her liver will eat her lungs

hoping her lungs will stab her heart

so finally

at least this

will be self-induced

and control

has always been her biggest vice.



I will bob chins into condition

rip skulls like mache

and hope the best for you

remembering the days of opportunity

and vain promises.

This prayer goes to you

my first love

even if you’ll never know of it.