As I child, I was confused that I remembered my tail (where would it go in my pants

and how would I sit?) until I learned we all had one once, 25 million years ago.

I remember the shock of raw air when I was born and my mother’s sadness.

I remember tin toys from the 1940s.

I think my husband remembers the feel of armor against his shoulder, dough under the heel of his

hand, the joy of thieving. Being a girl.

I wanted my cells to remember the Ireland, land of my ancestors. They did not. Impossible

memories cannot be planned.

I remember the twitch of my feathered wing tip to change flight speed and direction.

My nephew, when he was three, remembered his “other mother.” Her name was Lolly, he said,

and she’d he’d been shot.

I remember drowning. I remember hunger. I don’t remember breathing under water.

I no longer remember what I swore I’d never forget: how to macrame, the string patterns

of cat’s cradle, anything from calculus, most sign language, all my French.

If time and space creases and unfurls like the origami I no longer remember how to fold,

please bury my jukebox full of advertising jingles.

Please release my black cat I had when I was ten. Let me feel her ribs under her thin skin.

Let her nose touch my nose again across these folded dimensions.