Barbara Daniels

MEMORIES RISE FROM MY BODY

like hot air rushing up,
trace my arms and
shoulders, flap my hair,
leave a greasy smear
on the back of my neck.

I’m so hungry I could gobble
down eggs, smash them
into my mouth, swallow
the viscous whites, the lumpy
yolks, chew the broken shells.

Why can't my skin split
open and let me out?
The things I don't want
to remember crouch
behind the davenport.

I could pull them out
like strings of sausages.
But I fold myself up,
smoothly retract my legs and
arms so I can fit in a small box.

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