THE SKY REMEMBERS HER BEST

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The sky remembers her best.

It has, after all, 

observed her every moment 

filing them away in the archive of the clouds

It remembers her crawl

which she performed 

sitting upright 

gliding on her tush like Sportin’ Life.

It remembers the Betsy Wetsy doll that she doted on

The blindfolded grope around 

to pin the tail on the birthday donkey

It remembers her banging on the drum skin of a frying pan with a wooden spoon 

Through the grin of a wide-open winter window

To greet the New Year

The second that it arrived

As Guy Lombardo’s orchestra played 

A clarinet-tipsy Auld Lang Syne from the Waldorf Astoria

on the Dumont TV.

It remembers her lacquer black Mary Janes

Which landed on the lunar surface

Of Daddy’s shoes

When he danced with her at weddings

Like they had been partners for their entire life.

It remembers the measles and the mumps. 

The pastry pilgrimage of Aunts and Uncles

Who swung their Saturday night Entenmann boxes

Like string-tied church incense and later shared

Holy secrets in the confession booth kitchen

Which were always muted by pre-war plaster

It remembers the cyclorama of lustful boys

The bras and the itsy bitsy bikinis at the beach club

where toes and Elvis wiggled

in the sanctuary of Atlantic Beach sand

It remembers her marriages and her babies

The brief thrill of forever and the perpetual ritual of defeat

And it will do its best to forget the very end.

The short-circuiting brain.

The tortured howls. 

The strangulation of the present

And it will search instead

For all her long-forgotten smiles

And the top of daddy’s shoes.

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