1 The interior of my ear hurts in pulses, memories of your explanations for lateness, each time more inventive. You began with flat tires and cracked pots, I could believe it. Then that stray cat along the shoulder you had to catch. It scratched you. Where was the scratch? Where was the cat? Next, I thought, aliens will be stopping traffic for smog inspections and Rorschach tests. 2 Each time you lie you displace me. I am a refugee wandering a strange country sifting a dark new language. You have your wheel and clay; I have the heat of your kiln. I will keep your letters and pottery, the sleek lines of your flat hands, their enthusiasm. Don't worry about my memory and don't send me letters when you're gone. I must be alone in a room with my own wheel turning a bust of you out of wet fresh memories. If you arrive as you are now, not were then, even on paper, my fingers may poke through the eyes and form a ghoul of you instead of who I remember.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com