Jennifer MacPherson

How Your Hands Lay On My Skin

I don’t remember losing your address
in the cluttered map of my purse,
or possibly in a slipcover’s seam.

I don’t remember losing my watch, time itself
burning my wrist.

I don’t recall forgetting my last name, only
remembering yours.

I don’t remember moonlight when it wasn’t
falling on your dark body.

I don’t remember what you said or I said
on any particular day.
Maybe we ate the words in a sandwich.
Maybe we rubbed them out in your ashtray, all
the little letters scattered and burned.

I remember how our bodies swayed like palms
as they joined, washed by the sun
in the oasis of your sheets.

I knew – but I forgot – all things end in smoke and cinder.

I don’t remember the doors closing, just staring
at their carved figures, their jeweled intaglio;
I remember pulling at the bell over and over,
knowing you could not hear it ring.
. .

First Published in P.D.Q.