It’s amazing what you remember you forgot
When you leave a home taught to feel and not to see,
Touching the brail of yesterday flailing the blue-sky breeze,
Trailing your saxophone’s worn-down keys.
Chandeliers like Jacky Kennedy’s earrings-
You remember hearing a lot
But none of it was too much because blind cathedrals
Are still places of worship and G-d…
You are awed by what you remember you forgot.
Sight is simply translation, but music is that bitter taste
Of the beat between, “I love you,” and “I love you too.”
The greenness of success blanches the avalanches of
“I miss you,” and “Goodbye,”
This is why we forget to remember.
Home was a plate of white rice and beans and
I forgot to remember what it means to have a bloodstream
Full of the past. At last,
I remember what I forgot, and it certainly was not
The home made from my mother’s hair, my silver spoon,
And small infinites of our family’s tree in full bloom.
About the Author
Sophia DuRose is an eighteen year old writer from Orlando, FL, with a steadfast determination to pursue her love for writing. She is a member of the Florida State Poets Association and has completed a one hundred and eighty hour MFA- level poetry course, on scholarship with “Twelve Chairs.” Her work has appeared in literary magazines such as “Revelry,” “The Same,” “Contemporary American Voices,” “National Poetry Magazine,” and “The American Library of Poetry.” Currently, she is studying for her degree at the University of Pennsylvania.