Images peeled from memory:
green Bubble Up bottles, red and white Pall Mall packs,
a lit cigarette stuck to my father’s lower lip.
Summer, Northeast Minneapolis.
Traffic on Central Avenue, clink
of trains in the rail yards to the west.
Wail of tornado sirens on a hot, sticky evening.
Green skies. Cool basement. Flickering lights.
One by one, impressions wink and flash.
Mass at St. Clement’s, drone of Father Malley’s voice.
Library books stacked in my arms
as I walk home beside my mother.
The night my older brother’s pocket gets picked
outside the pub near 29th and Central.
How quiet he is after.
The rainy afternoon nine-year-old Sherry is electrocuted
in the next-door neighbor’s basement.
How quiet we all are after.
I lay words out on a page, try
to find the right order for yellowed stories.
Some I want to keep. Some I’d rather
let crumble to dust. But memory
doesn’t let us choose what lingers;
it just burrows deeper, waiting in shadow
until we’re ready.