print previewback RUTH MADIEVSKY
On Memory
Not the fire,
but the smell of hair burning. Not the hand,
but the magnetic hum
before it strikes. Not her death,
but the apricot jam
never opened. Not the kiss,
but the Ferris wheel
and the goat. Not the party,
but what happened
in the parking lot. Not the stars,
but 4 a.m.,
a skateboard. Not the crying,
but the loneliness
of board games. Not the eulogy,
but the caterpillar
and the shoe. Not the hospital,
but the needle, the lung,
macaroni. Not the sex,
but the whimper
and the window. Not the glass,
but the us
that was shattering. Not November,
but all of
this lidocaine. 
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On Memory