So I give you a memory
made of water.
Is it malleable? Will it freeze?
Perhaps it has already,
a block of opaque white.

There’s a language caught in my throat
that isn’t common.
I think it suits you better,
phrases that rise like helium-filled balloons.
You can roll them out

to anyone willing to listen.
I shall continue with the clogging
of my veins, my pulse another
could’ve-been, thick on my wrist.
Bathe in the sunlight

in a place that isn’t home
but you could learn to call home.
The roads I know curve
into the next, where I started
the end result.