Memories Come Late at Night

Memories come late at night.

My brother’s sixth birthday

and his crying sounds more like a prayer.

My father is

just back from the pub

and he’s staring in the bathroom mirror

but not looking at his eyes.

He turns the sink on and then off and then on

and I watch his hands shake under the water,

which turns red, like pomegranates, with blood.

I’m done, goddammit,

he says to my brother, I’m done.

Memories come late at night.

It is Christmas and it is raining

but we are pretending that it’s snow.

My grandfather’s hand is scarred and blistered and cut

and it is pulling me in to the cemetery

where, one day, he will go.

These are my parents, he smiles and then

lays blue flowers on his mother’s stone,

and, because the rain is pouring down,

the flowers begin to wilt, just like his eyes.

I haven’t been here in so long,

he says, so very long.

Memories come late at night.

Summertime

and the air is filled with sun-kissed skies

and dandelion weeds and butterflies

and gentle things that float

in the warm honey breeze.

Your lips are soft and I’m kissing you

where the stars fall and hold the nighttime sea,

where the sky pours out, across our backs,

and lingers along the surface of the bubbling water.

I’ll never forget this,

I whisper to the moon, never.

Memories come late at night.

June, years and years later,

and I cannot sleep.