stolen memories
i don't remember
the way the snow, glittering and fresh covered up the Adirondack chairs
to their chins, tucking them in for the night at our home on Grace ave.
i don't remember
the crisp leaves all over the yard, messy, loud, scrumptious,
neighborhood kids stop by to take a dip inside a pile.
i don't remember
us collecting dandelions which blanketed the soccer field in gym class
in pouches we made by folding our school shirts belly button high.
i don't remember
the liberating feel of the warmth in the nights under a mess of stars
laying in our swimsuits on the trampoline in the backyard of our Broad st home.
i don’t remember
the beach shack, buying fries on a saturday to eat on the warm sand
walking all along the frayed lake, finding special rocks to bring to mom.
i certainly don’t remember
breakfast at Michigans Plus, toast with extra butter or
Shabbat at Beth Israel, renting a DVD at the Redbox machine on Cornelia st.
i wish i remembered more
more of the ice cream flavors from Stewarts, names like supreme and swirl,
more of the riding bikes around town, to the library to read for a while.
i wish i could remember
all of the pink and purple sunsets, leaving my eyes tired, my mind howling,
my time spent happy, mom, me, our little town, our perfect life.
i wish, i wish i could just remember
the morning light rather than the dark moon’s glow,
all of the laughs made of vanilla rather than the melting snow.
i’m sorry, i’m so so sorry that i don't remember more
of these times that sparkle, that shine,
that should weigh more than the heavy rock i hold.
Aviva Lilith is a Brooklyn-based hybrid poet and artist living, as equals, with her morose calico cat. Her work has shown up in various art journals, literary mags, and anthologies including Sad Girl Review, Indie Blu(e) Publishing, At the Inkwell, and Headline Poetry & Press.
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