This is what it means to be a body lying curled
—pill bug, snail, acorn—
under a pile of blankets, waiting for memory
to overtake the world.
Lying curled warm and sleepless in the container
of forgetting, something
the shape of a hand, something resting. Lying
curled in the imprint of itself,
a fawn in a hollow, a set of keys dropped in long grass,
a stone. Lying curled in itself,
the body lists the names it gives to day and darkness—
Where I Must Go, What
Leaves Me, Restlessness with Wren. It lists the names
it has sung and forgotten,
all piled like leaves under a maple, all naked. It lists
the names it wants to be known by,
silent single syllables of recognition and longing.
It can never remember quite
what it means, but the trying makes a melody that hums
while the full moon sets.