So I Should Write Them

Sometimes only a voice can call me back
from the distraction that has become me...but some days I get so sick
of I, of me, of myself.

However, I want to remember these little bits…
I can’t turn off all of the forgotten people and voices
or flush them from the inside of my mind—

the colored beads, one silver hooped earring,
a stray sock from that baby who used to sleep
with her gold corona-ed head dipped inside my neck, flushed with sweat and sleep.
Why do all of the good things slip past my fingers in this singular way,
dribble from my ears and down the hollow of my throat until
I am inside those dark nights when I can't even remember
my middle name, and suddenly they come to me,
unbidden and hoarse...those memories push out
from under my finger nails and get lost in the crumpled cotton of used bed sheets...There are seconds that I should isolate,
trap insulated under the flute of hollowed glass,
those moments to tamp out one at a time,
like small capsules that fit into the palm of my waiting hand.