still faced child ,
the memories slide against your skin
almost as easily as your makeup .

you don't forget on accident ;
you forget because it's convenient .

something tells me
that it's getting hard to juggle the memories
that you want to remember
and the ones you want to make disappear .

your atlas eyes
take me
to the trailer in petersburg ;
to the cozy neighborhood in warsaw ;

to the dead man in the basement
in dayton ,
with his head on the tile
that was stained red
and the needle
next to his limp hand .

lucky you
that you got to see him .
that you saw his face .
that you were the first to see his
body as relaxed as it was .

a couple days later
you dressed in black
and saw his body again ;
not quite as relaxed ,
and without the lazy smile tracing his closed eyes .
he was stiff as a board ,
and had as much emotion as one .

his sister has gotten a tattoo ,
her arm still sore to the touch
as she recieved hugs
from family and friends and other people
who had that same
lazy smile on their lips
and around their eyes .

the tattoo told you the year he was born
and his name
and the current year
and that he had gone fishing somewhere .
there was a colorful fish between
the sloppily-gathered information ,
greens and yellows and browns .

you look her in the eye ;
she looks like you do
when you are trying to catch the good times that are flying
away ,
caught in the breeze
of ****** ,
and of the funeral feel .

it's sad .. because she has bad memory
and you can tell .

you hug her ,
and make sure not to touch her arm .
it's a sacred limb
that she will skim her fingers against in the mirror
so that she may collect
the good times
and sit down to dinner with them
on sunday evenings
instead of going to church
and sleeping through a sermon .

....

maybe
she will invite you over
for dinner
with her beautiful stories
and her memories
caught fresh from the sky .

**the lord only knows
how much she needs to move
her mouth ;
how much she needs
to speak .