How do memories actually slip in,
congealing as live cells,
breathing and pulsating on their own?
Try as you might,
none of them can ever be found
no matter how meticulous you comb through
cavities of the heart where in myth
anything you can’t stash away escapes.
Incredulous thought, of course—
an organ the size of your fist can’t
possibly compress into points as invisible
as unnamed stars these heaving live cells.
What about the brain,
in whose recesses and pools colliding stars falling
in millennium bits of light, moments
as deep as the unseen edges of the universe are known
to be reflected?
Even more incredulous—this
organ the size of half a ciabatta floating on water
can’t possibly breed the universe.
What then do you suppose
happen to moments at the instant
of birth, who gives birth to them anyway,
when do they turn into memories?
Metamorphose perhaps
into phantom cells, molecules
you carry about weightless until
you coax them into being. Only then
do they dance before your eyes or rush in
to bruise your heart.
(c) Copyright 2007 by Alegria imperial
