The Applicant
I was reading an essay: an architect
defending monuments because actual memory
was too intangible.
He said we forget everything
unless it has a physical dimension.
I was in a hospital,
my grandfather sprawled next
to me. I was his night watchman—
he wanted out.
All night his legs twitched under white
sheets like waves
in the cleanest water.
I was reading the essay
to cite in a fellowship application.
I was bored. I let ambition take over.
He died the next day.
Rolled over til I saw the thistle of hair
on his spine, huffed and expired.
I waited a few moments to call the nurse.
His body seemed to turn a confusing pastel blue.
I sensed the world in the window was moving on.
The essay: I wanted to say I disagree.
Memory is too powerful.
I don’t remember my grandfather’s
body, only his death.
The details here are lies—
readers need something concrete
to understand. The truth is I only remember
the facts.
I was applying for federal money
and my grandfather threaded away.
I tell myself
I remember my clothes or the show
on TV, but it is basic
as binary code or an abstract painting:
life, death, money.
