Member Poem

Your throat becomes an old Walkman, a small

cassette tape voice box playing quiet songs—

remind me of our forest, of landfall

touching sea. Tell me nothing there is wrong.

Play back packing tape memory of home,

the smell of cardboard, blankets, and old clothes

covered in paint from that first week. The comb

stuck in the carpet, door that doesn’t close,

buzz on your tongue whispering, “This is Rome—

all our roads led here.” Ignore what we chose.

Forget we are leaving her crib behind.

Exit the house, fall on your knees— atone

for what you’ve left. The tape skipped. The song froze.

Look back a moment; let yourself rewind.