Cellular Memory

They say cells remember: each falling star
blazes forever across the dark retina sky.
They say cells remember; mine, stubborn, refuse.

Your hands remind me of someone I loved
but I can’t recall who. I think this time I will not forget.
I think it will always be as it is now, forgetting

that once my childless belly was smooth,
once my fingers could recite each scar on each lover’s face,
once I believed in God.

Now I wrestle to memory: a bald eagle circling the river,
bats swooping at dusk, one bright-tailed comet
searing a night sky.

I am learning that wings do not always mean flight;
I am learning that sometimes love wakes
where it has fallen asleep.

And so tonight,
when once more my legs twine with yours,
when I feel your breath in my hair as you slip into sleep,

with care I will unlock each living cell.
I will fill it and whisper an urgent remember,
remember.