Chia Lun-Chang
Memory Is Fiction
They like to rewire
Some are languorous
Some interrupt
Some disagree
They have a sense of duration
Some have induration
They are endearing
Some will drown you
Some hide
A few don’t intend to hurt, but they’re born to be hurtful
Memory is a sponge and cleanser
Some are triggered by the odor
By order from authorities
Memory is a machine run by blood and impulse
a paradox’s box
a private ocean
a detective who isn’t interested in truth
a translator who isn’t capable of collaborating
Last sound
Which letters would appear on my deathbed
Suffering muffles voice
If I’m lucky to have someone
To share the mundane silence
Correct my pronunciation over and over
A noun is none. The verb becomes
Plural sound is an “s”
The past tense is
I was gone and
Your sorrow will bottom up
The future senses that
My mouth is deeper than any language I speak
Perhaps no letter would show up
Can we spend the last word properly
Not holding onto clarity