Is even memory dopplered, changing
as it recedes from us? That year the man
next door hit his girlfriend’s head
into a wall. Later that week, after close,
as I mopped the grenadined grid of dance floor,
I saw the owner’s bourbon-bright eyes
on the mop’s hard shaft in my hand.
Once, a man wanted to watch me rinse
a palmful of blueberries. Once, I slept
through every train suturing night to day.
My shift drink was never whiskey.
I walked home beneath a glitterbox sky,
fit my body through a zigzag of alleys.
Suppose instead memory opened like a crocus,
predictable, with a little light. You,
crocused in the night of my body—
do you know all that I’ve forgotten?
In the Middle Ages women believed
they could dissolve a charm, a petition,
into water, then drink it to their unborn child.
What I want to say is: blueberries grow best
in dappled summers, and they withstand
even harsh winter chill. When you plant,
remove the native soil. When you pick,
look for the darkest ones. Your bare feet
will wear the turned earth across the kitchen floor.
Never let a man watch.
