I am folding all my memories into fourths
as the drift up like bubbles from some silent dark place
tucking them safely away in the back of my mind
and saving them for later

but as I'm standing in the middle of the militant
feeling lost among the zealous and the proud
her voice tugs at the thin edges of a night I'd almost forgotten
who's paper-soft skin unfolds before me like a butterfly in the morning:

we were laid out like two strips of pale
in a dark room on a dark couch
her breath was a steady whisper against my neck
she was warm and sleeping
I was quiet but awake
afraid and discontent

As I fold the memory like a photograph
and tuck it back amongst the others
it is clear:
that was the place I should have been safe
should have been content
should have been asleep

AcB 01.28.01