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Pubescence Has Nothing to do With Memory, by Dianna Mackinnon Henning .
I am keeping my day still as sheets flung across the foot of our bed.
In this hour, memory bruises me with its sad obituary.
Bones of the past are buried deep and I cannot dig them free.
Do you recall when you said you'd say my name at Stonehenge?
Well, I heard you all the way back here in California.
And scent of my name was scent of lilacs.
Like the ones you picked from our neighbors' backyard
whenever they travelled, and proudly gifted me with their light hue.
But beauty is short lived and lilacs die faster than most flowers.
What bone has in common with flesh is that both eventually disappear.
Like you did when the morticians arrived and drove you away.
I cannot remember if you died at nighttime or during the day. My bed
isn't made. I refuse to make it. An impression of your body remains set
in memory foam. I sleep inside you each night to pretend you are still here.