I am a trash heap
Of scars and brittle bones;
Purple thighs and neck,
From pushing myself
off buildings
on holidays, and holy days,
or any chance I get.

Give me cash, or a drink,
And you can have that art:
Split lip, deflated vein,
claim it on tax,
Or pick the rotten apples
Beneath my hips.

I didn’t eat for a year,
Didn’t sleep,
Came home outside my head.
Nine years I dropped!
Ask for a memory -
I’ll make it up.
My mother always said
I had a certain knack…
Or I’ll tell you what I overhead
About the time…
And before that,
Tore out a thousand pages
Of grades and birthdays,
So every anecdote I recall
Is a lie, or stolen
from the back of a bathroom door.

And now, this past week,
I couldn’t speak without choking
On apple pip or tooth,
Come loose from too many knocks
And falls, down stairs
And lanes, marked by my mother
As refrigerator art,
Marked by my doctor
as a place to find
And legitimately recall
A memory untouched
by watermark, patent,
Or copyright law.