I remember the headstones, the names written in a language I never learned to read. I remember burning without light. I remember my hands were darker then, and I watched them twist, hands like snakes, like the striped cylinder outside the barber shop. I didn't see her but I remember her- but not her face. She was ghost to me, incorporeal, she was vapor, smoke. I remember my hands, twisted, reaching, snakes without prey. I remember works spoken in a language I never learned to listen to. Louder than I was used to. I remember her hands, soft, gentle, I remember my broken bones sharp against her skin. I remember the graves didn't match with us. I remember words in a language I don't understand. I remember fruit. They dangled like Christmas ornaments, like fairy lights. I remember summertime. It was summertime. I remember words like needles. I shut my eyes to block out the blood but I could still hear her. Her voice moved, lurched, strange, uncomfortable. I remember headstones. I remember mirrors. I remember we were on top of a mountain and our feet never touched the ground. I remember silent. I remember loud. I remember both, at once, maybe, maybe one on top of the other.
writing exercise (student day of poetry)