Dear diaspora, does memory eat the body?
What is the body whittled down?
The eyes as locket: mouth, hinge.
Language cannot express all memory.
Those that are not wholly present,
that exist at the edges, so that you only
recall in small moments of brilliance
when someone shows you a picture, a place where you were
present and your body took up space,
acted and moved and was acted upon.
And you realize you would never remember your body there
if it wasn't for this other to unlock this small part living
in you, but separate.
How can this be?
A fish leaping out of the depths.
The well.
A moment of light.
Orange flame.
Brief glimmer.
A slice.
What if memory is a light you swallow?