Souvenirs

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 Souvenirs


I am a things person.

Give me an experience, 

wide and vast, porous and leaking, 

and I'll bottle it up. Shape it 

like a little boat. I'll go find 

a mold to withstand that-one-time's heat. 


I want to put things on the shelf, 

heavy in my palm, where I might

pick them up from time to time

and feel the wind of it, whatever

it was, blowing through my hair.


Wouldn't you rather something

textured, sized, with weight? 

A bobcat figurine or a coin. 

So much heavier that unreliable

collage of Memory— the one that shows up 

when she wants to, the one who

makes an Irish exit.



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