Five years later
Nothing has changed and everything has changed. You can only hold on to you, to me, to us until your grip slips and there’s only a soft whistling between your fingers. After you’ve let go the imprint remains: droning bumblebees in the bride’s feathers, scent traps of birch and pine resin in white summer nights. Black snuff grains on your lip, a necklace of wild strawberries threaded on timothy grass, red granite smooth against your palm. Midnight dips and sauna confessions. What I meant to say is that memory still holds me in its grip like the lagoon holds the kina, the anemones and the stonefish, whose dorsal fin spikes penetrate the soles of my feet to release its poison.