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The problem with memory is you remember.

JSA Lowe | Poetry

What if it’s a relief not to speak anymore? It’s better to not, 
then everyone concerned can go on about their business, days 
ticking past, simple petals dried under a desiccating sun. I don’t 
know what I don’t know, I barely know what I do. A metal ring 

closes around a child’s throat. I stood up to recite the quatrains, 
bent double to pray aloud in tongues. Nothing meant anything 
and I had to hide that, when you are bookish but also stupid. 
She’s a poxy girl, so fallible. She wanted to be the best one. Now 

teenaged scars open back up, unknitting anile skin: criss-cross.