Memoir Poem by Terence Winch

I remember a party, he remarked. Her underwear
signified the grueling rehearsal. Infectious.
Outgoing. He picked the place. He whispered
excitedly, in a trashcan. He was really angry.

I remember the spaces stuck out like an armchair,
she said. Small light green masterpieces
went back and forth. He said a mask on the face
in distress is like seven chains around his neck.

She said some people have it, some don't. He was
among the last explorers to reach her, not the first.