Memories arrive like choke chains.
curled inside your nostrils
that sort of seems like Christmas
but you can’t remember why.
It can be summer,
sweat sliding into the creases
behind your knees,
shoulders tight, and prickled,
where you know they’ve been caught
because you left the house too soon
without sunscreen of glasses
to keep your forehead from crumpling
into frown lines against the sun,
blinking away the green dancers
flashing into view when the lights dim.
Even with the sound of children,
crashing through the shallows
and pedalos cutting through the lake,
one smell can spring you into winter.
Make you shudder
that the name you’re thinking of
was a little closer than the tip of your tongue.