I wander my past some nights
While I wait for sleep.
Someone I read recently said that our frontal lobe or pre-frontal cortex or some such brain part
Is a time machine
But he was referring to our human capacity to anticipate
Make a plan
Dream a dream
And live it in the mind’s eye.
I must use another brain part
To go back and relive
Though I never go back in factuality.
It doesn’t matter that I don’t see what I’m wearing
I know I am twenty-seven
And a brand-new feminist
Waiting for him in a Florida hotel room.
I know he will take me sailing
Then we will dine on seafood.
I can see myself but I don’t see what I’m wearing
I can look out from behind my eyes
But the everyday details
Have all escaped me.
Ah, our memories. That swear they are right, and are always true, but rarely accurate.