i’ve forgotten what the ocean tastes like
or the porcelain pale girls’ legs when they hike
up their patterned skirts. i’ve forgotten the words
for that crispy red fruit and those nervous furred
creatures. i’ve forgotten how loudly the mountains
sing—heck, i’ve even forgotten the lyrics they spun
and the color of the icecaps they nursed for
frigid year after year. i’ve forgotten the roar
of misunderstood spouses and the gentle tinkle
when infants snored, faces scrunched in wrinkles
around blissful eyes and porcine noses. i’ve
forgotten what flows languidly out of beehives,
some viscous golden fluid i suppose was sweet
or maybe bitter, but i’ve forgotten if it was a treat
for greedy children or a formal teatime staple
or both, and since it wasn’t the same as maple
syrup, i believe they are neither for a reason.

i remember what her vast ocean heart felt like
and the waves in her hair when she hiked
through patterned foliage. i remember the words
that tumbled out of her crispy red lips and the furred
peaches that she picked from burdened mountains
of fruit. i remember the surreal tales she spun
from the loom of her mind, where the mighty stood for
eons and eons. i remember the intensity of her roar
when her passion fired and how the slow tinkle
of the windchime in her roomful of wrinkled
clothes brought her blissful platitude. i’ve
never forgotten when she awoke with beehive
hair and languidly hugged me like a sweet
cinnamon bun, and i bitterly asked why she’d treat
me not as a greedy child but as a staple
in her sparkling life, and she said that maple
trees do not wear green dresses for a reason.