I keep forgetting things.
You, for example,
             who I tagged “important”
             with a yellow star
             but never followed up—
             too busy flinging myself
             face-first into the space jam
             before checking the expiration date.
And just as the bossa nova rhythm
             really hits its elliptical love trot
             all the smooth pine & plumbing
             falls out the crosshatch—
Because I forgot to call a number.
Because I couldn’t find it.
Because my mind was the World’s Last Phonebook
             and I never bothered to bring it inside
Because modern life was defunct
             before I could ever really touch it—
This is why I sometimes shudder awake
             remembering I forgot
             to buy a fax machine.
Why you and everyone
             I ever loved
             molders away under
             the rain-heavy tarp of my disuse.
Why I toss the edamame shells
             of my so-called intimacies
             and sit on my hands
             and keep going why am I hungry?
I write a list of reasons.
I write a list of ingredients.
I write a list of lovers.
I write so many lists, a list
             falls out of my list and makes a little
             list baby, tearing around unchecked
             with its unkempt fringe
             and eating all the women I was
             supposed to be before I was this one.