She forgot her home phone number.

She didn’t think highly of it anyway.


What troubled her somewhat,

and only for a moment,

was when her husband asked

if she could call their son

and she forgot what it meant to call someone.

And then she forgot she had a son.


She would walk through her neighborhood,

where she had lived for so long,

forgot it was three a.m.,

forgot she had her own home to go to,

breathing the beauty of the trees and fireflies.


Her blisters busted, spurting blood, clear liquid

into her untied walking sneakers.

The same grasses, sidewalk fractures,

houses seen again and again

were newer each time she saw them.


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