Then the phone rings- 'no data': <br />into the grinning barracuda over the range <br />tessled onto plaster from bits of glass <br />and given me by Jorge, my exile friend, <br />the dolphin-image alters; <br /> <br />(that's Jorge, who sometimes wishes he'd <br />stayed home in Cuba, but whose art <br />sells well and gets better- more complex, <br />adding figures, improving narrative- <br />he'll do ok if he steers clear of drugs) - <br /> <br />and the dolphin's away- <br />(irid fish, not the mammal,) <br />to come again another day, <br />leaving me the odor of salt spray <br />a sort of maritime uncinate fit <br /> <br />triggered by who knows what? <br />a blue burner flame? A cat's cry? <br />a tiny blood vessel bursting? <br />an enzyme that blossomed or failed to? <br />a synapse that synapsed or didn't? <br /> <br />The possibilities are endless and valid, all, <br />but none provable. Nothing is. <br />That's simply the way memory works. <br />Don't worry, though, it'll be back. <br />Heaven knows, we need our memories.<br /><br />Morgan Michaels<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dolphin-ii/
