I tap them out of their jar, these soft mornings,
not always ready for them or willing of want,
but some days I tap them out anyway, allow these
warm echoes of memory to sift out of their glass
tomb and stretch their legs.

They move their tapered wings, unsure of breaks,
crack a bone or two in flex and take deep breaths
hoping to figure me out, why they figured out
of their holding on such a rare occurrence,
and find they know no reason but enjoy the sojourn.

I watch them tentatively take flight and hover,
twitching to get closer to me but uncertain
of the idea, all silently shocked at my openness,
until finally they flit about me and dance their
air dance with complete abandonment and flair.

So this is what it felt like.

Each sense slowly comes alive, awakened,
and each sense remembers how to remember,
filling itself with a glimpse here a glimpse there,
patchy and sporadic, but all coming to like a
sedative wearing off after such a long coma.

The sticky and sweet become stronger,
it takes hold of being a holder and pull it all in,
embracing past embraces and crying out for
one more one more one more please, until the it
is sucked in completely and I am overthrown.

No this is what it feels like.

The voices start to ring in my ears, the perfumes
cram inside my nostrils and the taste of skin
fills my mouth a watery mess that wont melt,
and the sense of loss comes over all brash,
taking me by surprise, a sucker punch, winded.

I flail and gasp, my hand fumbling for the jar,
stumbling at every attempt until desperation
gives me more arm, allows my grasp to tighten
and the air rush out of me as I rush it to my lips,
a scream pushing it all back, cramming the jar again.

God no if this is what it feels like.

Tight and tighter still I close the lid, trauma bound,
stagger to the cupboard and put the jar at the back
to be sealed there for as long as I can make it,
and I fall listless into the chair, a sturdy chair
that I will not leave again, memory forbidden.

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