Chaparral

You must remember the time we drove 

to the mountains inshore from Malibu and

saw the coyote.

It is not something you can forget.

But we always did remember different things

     in different ways.

Why, just the other day, I was thinking how

the first time I met you, I was high, 

sitting against the wall of a stranger's apartment, 

     a stranger who turned out to be your brother,

and you sat beside me and we talked

through the comedown. 

But you always say that was later, that's not

     how

     we

     met;

instead, it was at the warehouse, under the lights

and the camera. No, I would have remembered that.

Forgetting is secretly a blessing; most people

struggle and fight against forgetting, as if 

every

     little

       thing

is worth holding onto. Remembering isn't so

great, either, I grant you. But to forget is to

do yourself a favor. 

I chose to forget that coyote had a small child's shoe 

in its mouth as it darted across the road, but I couldn't.

You saw childish things everywhere: a shopping cart

reminded you of a stroller, a napkin was a bib.

I still remember the name we picked out, I cannot allow

myself to forget that. What is the use

of forgetting something like that?

Nothing is easy, nothing is hard.

Remembering to forget takes will, takes memory.

Forgetting to remember, now that is the trick.