It comes knocking. And when you don’t answer,
it throws pebbles at the window. And when you don’t slide
open the screen to let in last summer, it rams
in the back door of your mind, splintering wood
and equations from eighth grade geometry class.
You’d let that go, except it’s headed upstairs
towards the attic that you’ve long since locked up but
Memory doesn’t care. It grabs your wrist,
drags you up the stairs. Won’t let go
until it’s thrown mix tapes out the window,
dumped drawers of tchotchkes and mementos,
ripped each and every photograph in two.
