I keep my memories on onion skin

Love used but not wasted

I keep my memories scribbled on onion skin,
on purpose, so that daylight can see thru them.
Sometimes I call on old Mrs. O’Donnell
in the school office to crank out
a copy of one I can’t quite recall
on the smeary blue mimeograph
and she obliges with some
sketch or smudge of it 
later that night or that year,
via the mail that comes 
by dream. 

Some are letters themselves,
handwritten by ex-boyfriends, 
old friends, my mother, 
stacked inside a plastic tub 
in the back of storage room.
I’ve lost all patience for these
hard copies--
I lust after the feeling that 
once bubbled up at their arrival, 
but the words themselves
are simply filler. 

There are rooms in my heart 
that hold love 
used but not wasted -- 
these are the places I understand
better than anything
on Valentine’s Day, 
what surges when I am 
walking in a forest alone, 
strikes me during a thunderstorm. 

I wonder how anyone collects
anything in these rooms 
anymore, now that our brains 
are electrified devices 
receiving jolts every second
of the day. No wonder we
dive after slowness,
fall into old age like 
a child lunging into 
a ball pit.

I am running toward
the memories that 
I am made of,
those sweet buttons
and notions which 
have sewn my heart 
together, which 
pin me down,
which tie me over
til dawn
so a 
bird's song
someday can
come carry me away --

This poem was written during my evening with

Salt Tooth Writers

, from a prompt “Where do we keep memories? Describe the chamber where we keep our memories.” I’ve made a few edits but by and large it appears here as it was read aloud last evening.

I am always so grateful for that brave space to create, especially in these rough times. There were some incredible other readings last night, as always great, especially from my fave,

Vanessa Aricco

.

For those interested, there’s vintage onionskin paper for sale on etsy of course. Here’s more about it.