Or Go Swimming

Three red chairs
tied together with gold
twine put her to sleep.

Rejuvenated driftwood
can split dreams
into chapters

she might remember
to revisit. Or
she might float.

Day 3,102

Rape or fantasy, a cat swimming
or drowning
in a river with no name. It had a name
I couldn’t remember as the dream drained

out. Comedians recite poetry—I can’t
write the words cancer, blood, weapon. No
courage. The very subjects I avoid
are the ones I should be wrestling

to the warm, dry ground.
For now, a French speaking club takes over
the coffee bar. And this corner
speaks to me without fear.

The details have begun
to fade—was it June
or July? New York or
Cleveland? Who were you

opening for? Was a body
of water involved? I could sprinkle
these memory ashes
downstream into the river

deceit. The truth:

I haven’t forgotten even one
detail. Down to the pocket
in my dress, later chewed and torn
by an innocent Airedale.

The truth? Do memories drown
when they’ve served their purpose?
Is two decades long enough?
What if they float?