I remember my mother’s soft hand in mine

My father’s adult-star authoritarian moustache

I remember the Zebra couch

Baptised in coffee stains

I remember musky moth-balls

And second hand warehouses with glass stacked high

I remember pain crippling

Sirens whirring

I remember water splashing in green-river lakes

Seaweed slapping my face

I remember my third-grade teacher

With Italian heritage; making pasta for ungrateful youths

I remember dusky dawns training

And dances til dark

I remember all this

And yet,

                        I don’t remember yesterday