“What was the name of that poem
about the raven?”
she asks.
“It’s called
‘The Raven,’ “
I say.
“No, not that one.
The one about the raven
picking at a body.”
“I don’t know that one, Mom,”
I shrug. ”I don’t know the name
of every poem ever written
about a raven.”
She’s convinced me
to come back here
where I haven’t been for years –
back among the marred wood
on every piece of furniture
in the family room,
a dent
in the unpainted drywall,
perfectly placed at the level
of a ten year old’s
head.
She runs her hand
over the depression.
“You knew the name once,”
she says, as her hand flutters away from the wall.
“It was a good poem. You knew a lot
of good poems, and all their names.”
“I know. I used to have a memory for things,
Ma.
I used to have a mind like a trap. Now..”
