I am told we don’t remember much
before we are four
though they are still there
the memories
like eggs
you don’t see
in a cake
the acupuncturist tells me
they hide in the body
stories with no words
roosting in our livers
hanging from our lungs
swept into webs
around our hearts
like the other day
when I locked the bedroom door
you screaming on the outside
me on the inside
I just need to not be here for a minute
I begged silently
with my eyes closed
my fists white and dancing
I tell myself there are exceptions
memories that just fall out
like loose change
or then a map at least
of your little body
so I can find out
where that moment has nested
and love you enough
to scrub it away.