In This Blanket There’s A Memory

In this blanket there’s a memory,
A grass stain that I can’t wash out.

I take it with me now, throw it into the backseat of my car;
A blanket, a book, a beach- Sunday ritual in my new city.
Sometimes the sand finds its way deep into the striped threads,
Littering my car, my shoes, my bedroom floor.
There are times the sand shows up, days later- an unrelenting presence
Like the sound of his voice saying ‘here’s your key back-‘
Let it go, let it dissolve or vanish or-
Shake the blanket out again.

The sand will disintigrate, gone until another Sunday.

Years ago there was Midwest-green grass instead of sand;
A girl sitting on a blanket reading Woolf, absorbed.
Reverie, literary escapism, broken by noise-
A skateboard nearly running over the pages of Mrs. Dalloway.
My look up, angry, pinched, met with his look over the shoulder.
An exhale.
A beginning.

Days of climbing trees and rolling down hills,
Pointing at patterns in the clouds, swinging competitions at the park,
Bike rides, licking melted ice-cream off of each other’s fingers,
Climbing to the top of the Arts building and watching the stars dance,
Angus and Julia Stone duets in the morning;
Somewhere along the way the blanket got dirty,
A green stain from the days that I loved.

Can’t wash it out now-
The sand vanishes, the green never does.
-And why would I want to?

I am thinking of all the hands I’ve held since I last held yours.
Which is to say, I am thinking of nothing but you.


February 2017


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