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<h1 class="title">Riptide of memory</h1>
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<p>Inside of my memory, the poem is another memory.<br />The air up here is thin, but the wind blows harder<br />than anywhere else I know. It threatens to rip<br />my body away, like <a href="angeltoabraham.html">an angel of death</a>, to the stars.</p>
<p>In Arizona, I thought I would forget the rain,<br />forget its sound on a roof like a hard wind, forget<br />its smell like a far away ocean. Luckily for me<br />it rains here. Luckily, because I forget too easily.</p>
<p>In a dream, <a href="father.html">my father is caught by a riptide</a> off-shore.<br />He’s pulled far out, far enough that the shoreline’s<br />a line in his <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">memory</a> on the horizon. I can see him<br />swimming, hand over hand, pulling his small weight</p>
<p>back to land. I see him as <a href="shipwright.html">another shipwreck</a> victim,<br />coughing sand and seawater, beard woven with seaweed.<br />I see him laying there a long time. I see all this<br />as he tells me the story, years later, the riptide</p>
<p>only a <a href="100-lines.html">ghost</a> in his memory, I only a child falling<br />asleep. My mother’s making mayonnaise rolls<br />in the kitchen, a recipe I’ll send for years later,<br />in Arizona, in the monsoon season, when my thirst</p>
<p>pulls me back home, my memory’s lonesome twinkle<br />like <a href="finding-the-lion.html">stars above the mountains</a>. I’ll send for it<br />and try to make them, but in the thin air they’ll<br />crumble into dust like desert air, like a memory.</p>
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