I’m sorry I have the memory of a mushroom.

On Saturday I forgot to buy honey. I forgot

to buy moisturizer from the drugstore

and pick up poems by Forché. This is why

I try to write everything down: promises,

appointments, birthdays, and other responsibilities,

but there are just some things I don’t remember.

Like the dark, watery spell my finger traces

in search of the Little Dipper. Or the reason

we scream at each other like wild horses.

But I remember the faces of my teachers,

turning to tell us what will happen

and why. That love so helpless must be a child

in a field of lilies. That you can hear a blue whale’s heartbeat

10,560 feet away, and your blouse was really

a corner of the sky the first time we met.

I remember one night, I was in my underwear, crying

in front of a lamp, wanting everything

to be over, and you told me you love me,

and I believed you, I do.

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