i nestle my toes beneath a quilt of powdered rock

and i am remembering;

feel a cool breeze rustle the hairs on my burnt neck,


arch my back and bathe my ears in the wind, this pregnant silence,

minutes and years in labor, but silence played while the clock was made,

and the silence helps me remember;


this patch of land is virgin to Apple -

at least the apple which i’ve grown to prefer -

bears no hut stocked with Starbucks cups,

no Netflix to latch onto my gaze and drain my attention,

no books to teleport, no telephones or televisions,

just the memory


what I thought had mattered



that sculpts the age into my eyes, art

organizes my thoughts into poetry,

ascribes meaning to my scars -

talia, definitely talia, stranded, remembering


and if i can remember my fourth grade school play,

and trace my mother’s smile in the sand,

then i can stand being stranded without most other things


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