Sometimes I forget where
I put things. Sometimes
I forget what those things
Are. I think maybe labels
Would help: cat, ice cube,
Daughter #2, French
Horn, gorilla suit . . . But it always
Seems to never work. The doctor
Has on his wall a blueprint
Of my bones, or someone's bones,
Each one labeled and they all
Fit together, each in its place,
And there, within the ribs, is room
To store everything that matters:
Asparagus, wife, saber
Saw, gin, pain . . . If you don't
Know where everything
Is, how do you know
Where you are? How do you
Know anything? You might
Be lost, your heart might deflate,
Your spine might collapse—well,
One day they will—, but your problems
Aren't mine. I keep track of what
I can and try to keep it safe,
But my skin, the skin that wraps me up
Tight and encages the rib cage
And knows car keys from catamaran,
Even it can't keep in every
Thing that makes me, me.