Let’s be blunt. Less reminiscing, more dismembering.
Gold photo albums—
the happy pair sun-scalded in Ibiza; our history in second-hand cars.
Her scarf, three blond hairs. Table lighters, cigarette case— their faint tobacco ache. Suitcased for decades, akin
to sanctifying
a silver-encased relic.
This winnowing,
a reluctant preamble
to confronting my own gathered life,
the whole steak and kidney taste of it.
Unraveling memories— every Sunday lunch, broken bone, blind date.
