erbacce-press

Probably

A woman says she remembers her own birth
and this is the primary reason
she cannot work to feed herself
but must rest in the afternoons
with a cool cloth over her forehead.

She talks about her birth at odd times,
the sensation of air replacing water
like coming up out of the sea
from skin diving, water streaming
over the crown of her head.

She raises the story, an umbrella
held between her fingers that fails
to shield her. Always the intrusion
of recollection, the assault of a multitude
of colours after the dim interior,
the screech and clank of the world.
Ever since, she has found the human voice
too precise. Swimming underwater
is of some relief, and certain medications
kept in large supply at her bedside.

This is the way the world has damaged her,
the curse of memory starting its engine
prematurely. Always she seeks forgetfulness:
lying down in corridors; throwing coins
into the throats of vending machines;
rearranging her red dishes
in the safety of the cupboards. Still, her bones
recall the crush, and the headaches come,
and she retreats to the canopied bed,
curtains pulled close like a membrane,
the pendulum clock a second heartbeat
overriding her own.

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