SARAH LEVINE
Forgotten Things
after Dean Young
Imagine you put your face against store windows
selling paper flowers and wooden horses,
rooms filled with forgotten things.
You were made because two bodies forgot
the uncertainty of risk, ignored
recitation of kiss kiss tremble, a sermon
announcing the end of free love.
Love taught you to stand inside an ocean, feel the fish
smear their scales on wave after forgotten wave, all in the name of homecoming.
Love taught no manners,
fire set to someone’s orchard so you become peach jam for days. How absurd
to be given a mouth that craves fruit bruised into sugar.
The forgotten sun gored pulp, originally gnawed by rain and the inch worm’s
grotesque bite. How easy it is now to chase chickens
wearing the reddest dress, legs running loud like forgotten pianos
being banged into existence.
218 The Paris-American
after Dean Young
Imagine you put your face against store windows
selling paper flowers and wooden horses,
rooms filled with forgotten things.
You were made because two bodies forgot
the uncertainty of risk, ignored
recitation of kiss kiss tremble, a sermon
announcing the end of free love.
Love taught you to stand inside an ocean, feel the fish
smear their scales on wave after forgotten wave, all in the name of homecoming.
Love taught no manners,
fire set to someone’s orchard so you become peach jam for days. How absurd
to be given a mouth that craves fruit bruised into sugar.
The forgotten sun gored pulp, originally gnawed by rain and the inch worm’s
grotesque bite. How easy it is now to chase chickens
wearing the reddest dress, legs running loud like forgotten pianos
being banged into existence.
218 The Paris-American