I caught myself doing it again—

peeling off labels—not a habit

more an unconscious prayer.

*

Her name was Melody and she

was weird. If I touched her left

cheek she had to touch her right.

*

Don’t tell me what is inside.

I ought to be pleased to recall;

ingredients in unreadable print.

*

Every memory has a place attached

but rarely a reliable date, a time of

day perhaps, dusk on Melody’s porch.