"Omitted memories are generally accepted as a sign of loss" by Kate Sweeney

Omitted memories are generally accepted as a sign of loss.


The locals say there are sandbars in the near
distance we can’t see on foot. They form a bar-

build to protect the shore from the danger
of open water. What is called a drowned river

estuary. I made you repeat these words to me
over and over mating the sound to my skin

while you hiked me to the smallest clearing to watch
the mixing of the sea. The spot that makes visible

where the salt meets the fresh, where the birds gather
to fish the churn. It was there, you laid me out

across the sand and worked your warm shadow
over my soft openings, pine needles pressed

into my back, sand in my nails, your hair
in my fists. We were nervous about being caught,

but not nervous enough to stop. Afterward,
you pressed a small horse into my palm,

crudely crafted of red clay and dust. I had another
horse stuffed in my jacket pocket, with the leftover

whalebone and onyx, but I was afraid to give it to you.
Afraid of what it could mean. It was this day

you told me, we can never fail. And after you left,
I wrote it over and over into the palm of my hand.

It became passwords, transferred to
numbers, then back to words, into a code

I tapped out on tables when I needed reminders.
I met an ornithologist, he made it into a wood

thrush call to tattoo around the outside of my hip.
The years have piled up. I bought the horses a velvet pouch,

carry them as a pair roped together with waxed twine.
It’s how I imagine ritual; transferring from jacket to bag

to pocket, memorizing old letters obsessively, like scripture.
Precision, place, contribution. I decided to map the spot

back, to rid myself of these trivial keepsakes, to bury the horses
deep in the earth beside the tree growing alone from sand. 

You took a picture of me here, when pictures were still something
we held in our hands. Even the small square area along the edge

of the water hasn’t eroded, but the length of clearing
now seems impossibly tiny. Too tiny to hold us both.

It is my last attempt to reach you, I found a way to sever
my hands at the wrist and leave them for you on the smooth

warm stone. For you to have when you return.
So that you might know that I was here too.

Kate Sweeney

Kate Sweeney has poems in Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art, SWWIMM Everyday, Kissing Dynamite, The Shore Poetry & other places. She has poems forthcoming from Ethel Zine. Kate is Marketing Director for The Adroit Journal and currently resides in Los Angeles.

Headshot: Kate Sweeney

Photo Credit: Staff