My mother calls
the semilunar
fold the third eye,
that membrane
that became
a small pink slip
in the corner,
pressed sharp
and slivered
as origami,
as a body-
memory
of the time
we were birds.

to blink now
is a reminder
of the things kept
in the lives
left behind:

star sign,
first job,
the song
your mother sang
washing dishes,
the way you burned
a mixtape
for me
and felt-markered
the surface
like a school-
girl
turns blush.

over and over,
ask,
where
do I put this down?
how do I close
something
born open?