i know an archivist
who sits by her window
taking note of everything
that no one else sees.
there’s an archivist
i know, and no one knows
she’s an archivist –
a secret for no other
reason than secret-keeping.
the way that tree
over there is losing its
leaves, 5 to 6 at a time,
even though it’s spring
– noted.
(i know the feeling)
entry 1,232,154 done.
that bird with the yellow
streak across its back
singing at the top
of its lungs,
looking thirsty
(i know the feeling)
– that’s 1,232,155.
and the little cloud
moving faster than its
sisters, trying so hard
to catch up,
(i know the feeling)
even that is noted
(1,232,156).
even the little
bumble bee mistaking
window-glass for
free space – a soft
tap only the archivist
can hear
(i know the feeling)
– that’s entry 1,232,157.
every little thing is
archived, made note of,
noticed – and sense can be
made of everything later:
in the shadows, where
it’s safe.
taking her place by the
window, counting 1 2 3 4
under her breath,
the archivist lives in a
house without a door.
no, the archivist lives
in a house where the
door has been barricaded
shut.
no, there is no barricade,
but the door is made of
steel and can only be
opened from the outside.
no, the door is not made
of steel, but i promise
you it’s locked.
silly archivist, reach
out and try turning
the knob.
come on now.

*

i know a sentimentalist
whose body’s created a
whole separate heart just
for her memories.
there’s a sentimentalist
i know and no one knows
she’s a sentimentalist,
a secret for no other
reason than secret-keeping.
the day she first touched
the hand of the love
of her life –  she remembers
all the details, grand and miniscule.
(how could i forget?)
that one takes up a lot of
space.
the first time she noticed
a prominent grey streak on
her father’s head,
she cried
(how could i forget?)
that memory birthed a
poem.
and the day her siblings
collectively consoled
her through her first
heartbreak; they were
so gentle with her
(how could i forget?)
that one makes her
feel like a candle’s been
lit inside her
(it was belonging for
the very first time).
even the little things
like the feeling of
mama’s hugs and how they
smell like safety – a
faint scent only the
sentimentalist can smell
(how could i forget?)
that one she craves
often.
nothing she sees or
feels can be forgotten –
the good and bad alike:
all with the same intensity.
some days the grief is
louder and some days hope
wins; it’s a gamble
and there is no reward.
the memory heart is in
her gut, and some days
she’s sure she’s having
a heart attack.
no, the memory heart is in
her throat, and if she tries to
speak, she chokes.
no, the memory heart is
a door to a room where the
windows open straight
to the past.
silly sentimentalist,
there is no such thing
as a memory heart.
come on now.

*

i know a woman who lives
in a house without a door
and has a memory heart
in her gut.
there’s a woman i know
and no one knows what
she’s thinking.
no one knows what
she’s thinking.
she’s lost it.
it’s not even a secret.