Memory arrives as a pin to hold the tethers of compulsion. In this hemming of excess, the image is always error. I tell my therapist I came to speak the honeysuckles that muffled the different octaves of our bodies, or the pouch of glass marbles—my fascination with the multiplicity of their worlds, to be the one perched above, onlooking. To watch them roll away. Of course, this is a lie. I tell my therapist that I have always lied, that always means sometimes, that sometimes I forget, that I forget—that I always, always forget. The hour is stitched behind us, our time up already.
Stephanie Kaylor is Reviews Editor at Glass: A Journal of Poetry. She is completing her PhD at UC Santa Barbara, and curates the Sex Workers' Archival Project. She lives in Brooklyn.
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