When the mind unwinds
memories lie in ruins. 
The bridges that once 
linked thoughts collapse 
into a jumble of rotting planks 
and broken pilings. 
 
When the mind unwinds 
it can only go back and never 
forward; this is a time 
for unlearning.
 
Whose house is this? Why 
are my things here? Who 
is that man who says 
he’s my husband? 
 
When the mind unwinds
some memories stay lodged 
like shrapnel — 
your mother’s ring 
and her impatience, 
the house with three palms 
where you grew up, 
the time in high school 
when you parked the car 
on the tracks, 
daring it all to end. 
 
When the mind unwinds 
it goes slick as an 8-ball
and everything new to it 
slides right off. But you, 
you are still in there, the core
of you bending like a reed
in the storm of it,
bending toward an ending.

I don’t know their names or gender 
or whether they even have a gender. 
I forget they’re even there like I forget 
a name, a fact, a necessary detail. 
I only have to wonder aloud and move on 
to another thought when I feel a little tap 
on my shoulder or sense the presence 
of a calm being behind me and there he is, 
or she, or it, handing me a folder 
wrapped in a metaphor containing 
the datum I couldn’t bring to mind
that short time ago. Then I can go on 
living, assured that my mind still works, 
that the guys in there have not run off 
to serve a younger or more facile mind, 
that they’re with me still in their khakis, 
buttoned-down shirts and wire-rimmed 
glasses, poised to run to the file box 
where they know just where to find 
my username and password, the place 
where we took that photo with the sea 
crashing behind us, or the name 
of that actor, you know, the guy 
who starred in that movie with that 
actress, you know, the pretty one 
with the wide smile and the shining teeth.

Outside my kitchen window
a liquidambar balances in leafy
arabesque, a jacaranda drops
sticky-siren blossoms
onto the lawn and birds dance
on the grass beneath a redwood tree.
What a beautiful view! she says
again. I agree, tell her I am glad
that I don’t have to take care
of it myself. Moments pass, we sip
our coffee and then, looking out
the window as if for the first time
she says it again: What a beautiful
view! She notices the view
every two minutes for at least
an hour, each time as delighted 
as the time before.
 
One weekend she keeps asking
How did you two meet? We tell
the story time and again, she listens
with interest, asks questions
for clarification, moments pass
and then she asks again How 
did you two meet? Another time 
her question is When are you two 
getting married? She asks it 
and asks it, he doesn’t know what 
to tell her. Tell her we already did, 
I suggest later, ask her Doesn’t 
she remember? Sometimes
 
she asks about her brother.
They tell her he’s been gone
for ten years now. Each time
it’s a new blow to the stomach, 
a new knife to the heart.
When her daughter dies, they don’t
know what to tell her. Where
is Barbara? she often asks.
She’s coming, they tell her.
You’ll see her. She misses you.