I save their stories like scraps of stolen treasure. I know, for example, that she was conceived at the 1965 World’s Fair, and that hidden above his left ear is a question-mark shaped scar. I remember the name of the child they lost, what she called the family dog, and that he wakes from nightmares as if in a back-alley brawl. Thief, collector, story keeper. How easily I recall their memories and mine — those couples in love and couples lost, the pillow talk of lovers, the half-life of trauma, and the white-haired widow forever chasing her dog by the shore.
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Poem ©2023, 2026 Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you’ll love my book SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS, on sale at my Etsy Shop.
