by Lisa Marie Brodsky

Memory in Origami

Someday, I will remember what I learned to forget:

her morning coffee cup sitting
in a slant of light. Her head on her pillow,
lips slightly parted,
breathing, breathing.

Autumn makes me want to
go to your house and hide
in your arms, fold myself into
an origami woman.
How can a day pass without you,
without the reminder of what
I suddenly have?

You hold me when I hiccup with sobs, when
my teary eyes make oceanic earthquakes

You help me remember
what I learned to forget:

how she told me that I would find true love
one day and that it would stick.

I’d not lose it like a sock
in the dryer; it wouldn’t threaten me
with harm

like a bee doing crazy-eights near my ear.

Her hair smelled like Prell and cigarettes;
I can show you pictures of her in a sleek white
dress at nineteen.

Perhaps leaves fall

to embrace the grieving.

You unfold my body, welcome me to walk
on these paper-thin legs.

You write love notes on my thighs.