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Muscle Memory

All wounds begin with coldness, moments before lacerated skin simmers—affinity with pavement,

rock and mud, soil littered with discarded cutlery, unused electronics, all manner of foreign sharpness. When the chill disappears, the mind considers pain

finally. Instructions for the body part to feel—intense heat, some prickling, a childhood in a silent playground. Chains. You pushed until my feet framed

a sluggish cloud’s tail-end. A dusty kick. Flight was a moment. In the fridge, a pair of wedding souvenirs lay entombed beside a jar of tomato jam, a can of beer.

The days return quickly, as soon as you say

The roast beef is rich and creamy, or The bride’s dress resembles a lavender seashell. Inside the boxes, bright-colored candies—peach, yellow, a strange shade

of blue. When the chill disappears, the feet remember: right food forward, then left. Neither is left behind. Endless walking. Naked footsteps. In a walled city

I trace an ancient lover’s frantic escape. She walked here, too,

barefoot. She may have thought of the same things—a childhood, a nuptial, her days returning vigorously. Muscle memory: the body knowing

ahead and more. Desiring to tire. When habits replace thankless consciousness. When what we know surrenders to any frail thing, even wounds

that begin with coldness. Closer to earth, the heat here assembles.