How to Forget Their Name

Courtney Hilden

 

At first, it will

seem to hold

fast

to you, like a bat

to night.  You will drive

 

up the dark,

fooling yourself into believing

you can                                            

chart its ombres.  You will busy

 

yourself with other

tasks: prying

 

loose the ship’s planks, boarding

up the windows, breaking down

the packages, taking

up that long-

wanted hobby of composing

aubades.  One day, as you are

 

greeting

the dawn, the morning will

remind you

of them.  You will ask yourself when

 

was the last

time.  You will not recall

it was when you heard

a love song. 

 

It may slip

            away

in parts—

the pronunciation, or the spelling, before

 

dissolving completely

like macaroni

necklaces.  It may come back momentarily, in

 

parts: the syllable rhythm, its sense

it was poetry in another life.  You will resolve

 

yourself to distraction: the aforementioned other

lovers, new names

for forgetting, fresh

partings, nocturne

serenades.  Some

 

thing will finally rise

up out of the black

waters to grab

 

hold of you.  With renewed

 

attention you will

admire how he picks

at his bones.  With affection,

you will hold

 

his hands so the wounds

may heal.  While out, one day,

 

as you and he lay waste

together, they will

approach

 

you.  After the initial

greeting they will

 

wait.

 

For once, the silence

will love you, favour

            you

            instead.  Don’t you

remember

            me?  You will tilt

 

your head to one

side.  Unintentionally,

 

their portrait of you will begin

to melt like untempered

clay. 

 

 

***

Courtney Hilden’s work has been published in Bustle, More of Us, Panning for Poems, Dodging the Rain, among others.