your parents’ memory
falls apart like an old, blue shed,
but somewhere they hold you
someone brings them flowers. their bodies
are jars humming with a green absence
in abandoned orchards—somewhere
they hold you
my mouth loses your name
but I still hold you in my hands. we live like this:
ivy in love with a mansion. I cling to you
after forgetting, I treat
the earth like the sea,
bring flowers for the fishing net of your hair, anyone’s hair
the window darkens with the returning swans—
I forget your face but your hands,
the most intimate color, your hands. the sky huddles around the fish trucks.
a slab of light
between your face and
it occurred to me you might, like your parents, lose your memory.
your dreams, I know, gleam with salt,
I cannot touch you, only listen to the waves inside you.
forgetting occurs like this: my body,
moribund by a shore,
not returning, a slab of light
between your hand and
Triin Paja is an Estonian living in a small village in rural Estonia. She writes in various cities, countries, forests, fields, riverbeds. She's interested in silence, plants, moths, and travelling.
My father sexually abused me.
When I got married,
I hyphenated my name.
No one questioned it at the time.
But in the middle of my parents’ late divorce,
everyone wants to know about names.
i was depressed,
and i wanted
to take a
you said you'd join me—
didn't mean i wanted
netflix and chill,
it happened before words came
to tell me how to feel about it
newly connected neurons torn apart
forever firing blanks into the microbiological air