Memory Foam

I dropped into my father’s casket
a faded photo
in which he stood on a beach, ankle deep
in an ocean wave, lifting a child.
He swung me high into morning.
My bucket hat flew from my head,
landing in a moat circling a fortress
molded from sand and store-bought
conch shells.
His powdered face at rest
less beautiful than his surprise
when milk for our hot chocolate burned,
charred to a pot bottom
after he was distracted
by the kitchen pendant light bulb exploding
without explanation. He explained a surgeon
once poked tiny holes
behind his eyes to save his sight
from the pressure of trapped grief,
we all have choices to make
in the dark.
I watched tender funeral workers pull a white silk
blanket up to his folded hands.

When I die, I’ll miss my memory the most
he said. Memory needs a breathing body
to survive. Mine holds a family
of landmarks, one leading to another
beach holiday, where my husband filmed us
with his phone as he thrust, naked
as an eye. Blue light burnished
his outstretched arm. His chest
pressed against my scapula.
His cheek scar, cashew-shaped.
His tongue, suede scraping my shoulder.
Our faces joined by a line of spit.
Our legs on the half-stripped
mattress, rippled with stripes of dusk.
Next, we played back the video,
voyeurs to ourselves, skin aglow.
The same moment
viewed from two angles. I sobbed, blinking
like a cursor, cries from a deep I’ve never seen,
the sea’s sighs outside our small hotel room,
a soundtrack, rush of tide
leaving foam behind.

Read more from Issue 23.1.