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Cleaves
- University of Pittsburgh Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
59 Cleaves The phrase memory bank is false—you can’t slip a plastic card into the side of your head and make a withdrawal. There’s no cashier, but maybe there’s a vault behind your irises, with a green lock, and a brass door leading to a warehouse, with aisles filled with boxes, arranged by year. Some boxes contain dioramas of rooms you woke up in, blow-up dolls of girls you almost kissed, like Aegean-eyed Maya, a series of bummed cigarettes, then back to her place for tea, a light green bra on the pillow. See how slippery her skin still is? Why didn’t you walk through the door she carved in the air and handed you the key to? Why didn’t you chomp the peach she dipped in chamomile and brushed across your teeth? One day, it’ll be just you, strapped to a helium balloon, floating through the darkness, halfway to Jupiter, clutching memories to your ribcage, as if the details of your shed life could shield you from the stars glittering like the tips of frozen cigarettes in the firing squad’s lips, as if recollecting the name 60 of that prune-faced third-grade teacher, who never liked you, could somehow ward off the cold-skinned beast, with numerals for eyes, ripping childhood drawings off the walls of your mind. ...