Memory is a Strange Thing

The summer before college,
We lay on my parents' bed, feet up on the wall,
Pillows on our chests.
Your curls wrapped my straight hair, and you said:
"I know they hurt me,
I just don't remember how."

*

An artist made 1600 moons moving,
From 1950 to the day his father died,
And left it for us to watch in a circular hall with no lights.
This, his father saw this.
This, his father died watching this.
This, we live watching this.

We kissed in the hall, as the moons switched phases.
This, we came alive to this. 

The moon we remember isn't the one
His father remembers.

*

Lately I've been describing my long-lost emotions
To myself
As though they are people who have folded aside their bodies.

Fingers, pressing buttons on a remote whose batteries have died.

Calves, walking a narrow maze with edges.

Hands, floating in the darkness, acting as eyes.

Torso, leaving sweat fingerprints on my sheets.

I'm giving them skin and blood so that next summer, when you ask,
I can say,
"I know they hurt me,
And here are the injuries."

*
"The channel won't change."
I watch her every afternoon,
Afraid to use the elevator
Afraid to leave the house
Afraid to walk the long garden
Afraid to press the wrong button.
"The channel won't change."
My grandmother says.

I nod quietly, and watch her fingers pressing 

buttons on a remote whose batteries have died.

*

When my grandfather could walk using a walker again,
He'd call me, saying he had a surprise,
And take baby steps up the staircase and down.
He'd count each of them out for me,
Thinking I needed to know my numbers,
Even though I was thirteen. 

He'd count thirteen steps and say,
"It's because you are thirteen."

I can't count to thirteen without hearing a clank and a thud
Of calves, walking narrow mazes with edges.

*

I watched my grandmother fall thirteen steps.
They were thirteen, because when I got her upstairs, 

we had counted them.
I was her
Hands, floating in the darkness, acting as eyes.

There was a thud every three steps, twice when she landed.
I heard them with a clank I couldn't explain.

I remember that first drop of blood, and thinking
This red is regular, every month, this is regular.

That night, I was
Hands, floating in the darkness, acting as eyes,
Unable to forget sight.

*

My dream was blue.
The sky was blue, the rain was blue, we were wearing blue
The building was blue, 

Yet the blue you wanted belonged to the sky. 

So we jumped up, and I could brush against the sky.

It was my dream.
It was a happy dream.

I woke up, and I could see my shadow in sweat
Torso, leaving sweat fingerprints on my bedsheets.

It was my dream.
It was supposed to be a happy dream.

*

Lately I've not been thinking about it ending
But I have been thinking about endings.
My grandmother sleeps next to me,
Sometimes taking up the entire bed.
I am home very little,
In her sleep, she forgets I am there.

I whisper to her in her sleep,
"I know I hurt you, and I know I'll hurt them,
I just wish I didn't have to remember how."