Dobby Gibson

Memory

The problem with reality
an art teacher once told me
is the closer your art gets to it
the realer it has to become.
I feel like the world was less broken
then or I was less broken
but I worry I’m not being real.
Can memory be a worry?
I suspect it works more like a wish.
I worry I should have become
a short-track speedskater. I wish
I weren’t this set of rusty steel claws.
If I’m being honest
I’m not entirely sure
what a memory is.
A drawer in the basement
full of old batteries.
A mirror you look into
to see another mirror to see
your own ass from behind.
There isn’t much I’d do over again
not even the previous line.
I don’t like to feel the shape
my body leaves in a mattress
I’d rather watch everyone dance.
If I’m left with one memory
let it be dance. The indelible crimson
in a Joan Mitchell painting.
That first F Nina Simone lingers on
in “I Loves You Porgy.”
I don’t think I’ll forget
the abandoned lighthouse
we walked out to near the harbor
on the last weekend of summer.
I remember you said it looked
better from a distance
where it was possible to imagine
a light was still shining.