I find a map and ignore Chicago,
you don’t exist, your warehouse
collapsed with you inside.
I can’t forget that you forgot.

I was 17,
running away,
reaching toward validation and adventure.
Just making a mess,
with open hands and a dead black heart,
pumping toxicity and fossil fuels through each vein.

I find a car on the side of the road,
take the 70 East until I can see smoke,
from the industrial plant
outside the airport.
The air smells like flight.

I was 19 and I
can’t forget that you forgot me.
We tagged the side of the train,
I couldn’t think of what to say.
The weight of collapse
resting on my back.
The police chasing, guns drawn for the second time,
metal cool until it hits, hot,
dribbling bubbles of sweet strawberry red jam.

I’m 25 and I am trying.
My eyes clenched tighter than my fists.
The ol’ stomping grounds
the plantain sandwich from that
secret spot in South,
and even then, I asked for No mayo please.

I’m 34 and I know that you forgot me.
Swirling between remembering and remorse,
Squeezing limbs through the sewage drain.

Snaking shaky arm and leg,
hiding in the grass and lawn.
Perfect blades cut jagged edged,
held bloodied knife raw.

– “Aloe” Sarah Michelson