315/365

it’s understood
that memory is
tethered to olfaction.

seems straightforward-
you smell something
you remember.  

didn’t realise
it works the other way too.

standing at the white board
out of nowhere
conjure up a whiff of green soap:
back in the chair
punctured skin
droplets of blood
loud music
hum of the gun
pulsating needles
down to the bone
smear of ink
tender flesh
skin come to life
permanently inked.

how bare one must feel
to wear naked skin.
hear the murmuring
beneath my rind.
feel the soft soothing song
of green soap easing the pain,
for a few short seconds
before the next onslaught
of welcomed aching.

131/365

memory is fiction.
soft-hearted echos,
indulgent mementos,
kept in envelopes
kept in folders
kept in boxes
in closets,
fettered to
repetitive recollections
that make the faded past
indelible.
bearable.
real.

that happened:
the stories
keep you apprised,
filling in the blanks
with manufactured
tracts of reality,
like reliable
rumour.
testimony.
confession.

there are not too many things
more meagre than language,
trying to reveal
this self:
inside and out.