The ephemera of my blinked
existence live in shoeboxes,
cigar cases dust-lined and
discolored as if from slow fire
smoking through teenage
correspondence, solemn feelings,
molars and other artifacts
dropped from us
and kept for the reason why
there may be birds which
forget to find their lives beautiful
when nesting, when soaring and
anxious on telephone lines
I dig up the source
but am pulled under
because there was more to
the story that had or hadn’t
happened:
tickets and once-scented kerchiefs
and the newness of love,
a mirror that isn’t,
we ultimately do not stumble
upon ourselves, only someone else
who remembers by keeping
mabel lee 