Memory is a Ghost Called “Detail”

By Ariel Machell

There are no snapdragons to pinch, only sheets
of moss strung up on low-hanging branches
by the river where rocks shine red like meat.

The sun slivers through the veiny gaps, bringing heat,
and yellow lupine blankets the water’s edge in patches,
but there are no snapdragons to pinch, only sheets

folded twice on the bank for sitting, nice and neat,
where we’ve come this afternoon to eat our lunches
by the river where rocks shine red like meat.

The place has changed but smells just as sweet.
Pollen floats down to rest in our lashes,
though there are no snapdragons to pinch, only sheets

and ribbons of plump blackberries, which secrete
a juice that glistens like blood and splashes
by the river where rocks shine red like meat.

We remembered snapdragons, last time we came to eat.
They’d open their mouths when we’d squeeze at their latches,
but there are no snapdragons here to pinch, only sheets
of roaring river where rocks shine red like meat.

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Ariel Machell is a poet from California. She received her MFA from the University of Oregon in 2021. Her work has been published in Gravel, Verdad, Landlocked, and Up the Staircase Quarterly.

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