Unmade and Drink

Even a crushed or listless memory
is a little sweet, laying like the skin of a grape
in the spring grass, gooey insides already eaten;
much the same way our shed clothes on the floor
puddle like petals and autumn, celebrating urgent messes that gust in our swelters and rage in windswept abandon;
or as the small clothes of children, now grown up and gone,
are tenderly held up and kept in plastic reliquary boxes
and preserved in old smelling wood drawers.
There you were, a child in my arms, and now
all grown you wriggle from these stories that capture me in scarlet stains of playmate now lover, playmate, nor whore no more. The cedar smell blossoms in this November.