a poem from Issue 34.1

Memory Is a Bull Market

by Heather June Gibbons

How embarrassing—an ABBA song
looping in my head and the vague sense
I’m being tailed by a squirrel in a red
jumpsuit waterskiing behind a remote-
controlled boat at an auto show.
If I were more than all I’ve left behind,
I’d have a phantom heart murmur
and perfect skin and not a twinge
at the omission of some polite gesture,
that sharp whiff of yesterday’s fried fish,
some moment I neglected in which
something crucial was hidden,
the plastic egg we never found
that fades from teal to a hue much closer
to the color of the real. Once again,
the song recues and rescues, syrupy treble,
then that eponymous chorus, so shrill
and unforgettable. I could tell you lies
so beautiful you’d be sobbing
into your napkin in no time, and what
I couldn’t make up, I’d remember.

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