by Evalyn Lee
In the kingdomOf little wordsI can’t remember,Bright willows Whisker and weepLeaves,Into a spring tide.The flooding river,Bridged by a railroad,Redeems the spaceOf my lost workingMemory. For me, wordsNo longer sit stillUnless written down.So under a blue plate sky,I take notes,A hierarchy of marks,As dogs snuffleBy muddy bootsAnd the enormousSmallness of my memory.A jumbo jet rages in descentAbove the boathouse,By the turning pointOf the path I can’t remember.I’m not like the cloudsWith gray bellies, on the horizon,I can’t hold on to rain.I write: Clouds. Rain.My daughter, walking with meAnd revising for exams,Holds out a poemBy Robert Frost:
You should know this, she says,
‘Leaf subsides to leaf.’I tell her, I don’t remember,Then I distract her,Pointing out the talkOf total strangers:
If he is makingA mistake, it is hisTo make. Did you bringThem? My mum did,For us to eat,And using my phone and thumbI take a picture,At Corney Reach,To focus, seize, crucify,This whorl of wordless now,Water. Daughter.Please. I must, I can, remember.