i nestle my toes beneath a quilt of powdered rock

and i am remembering;

feel a cool breeze rustle the hairs on my burnt neck

and remembering;

arch my back and bathe my ears in the wind, this pregnant silence,

minutes and years in labor, but silence played while the clock was made,

and the silence helps me remember;


this patch of land is virgin to Apple –

at least the apple which i’ve grown to prefer –

bears no hut stocked with Starbucks cups

no Netflix to latch onto my gaze and drain my attention

no books to teleport, no telephones or televisions

just the memory


what I thought had mattered



that sculpts the age into my eyes, art

organizes my thoughts into poetry

ascribes meaning to my scars –

talia, definitely talia, stranded, remembering;


and if i can remember my fourth grade school play

and trace my mother’s smile in the sand

then i can stand being stranded without most other things