A Made Thing

Memory, like a poem, is a made thing.
A mixtape of summers past. Blurred
Polaroids pinned to a corkboard.
Re-captioned in different ink.

My wicker nightstand time-capsules
a long ago self: shiny-handled pocket
comb, cherry lip smacker, mood ring.
A knotted band—faded and frayed.

Gianna and I braided friendship
bracelets and tied them on each other.
Wrists thick with candy-colored zig zags.
We wore them until they fell off.

We pedaled our Schwinn Sting Rays
in saltwater sandals. Ate dinner outside.
Dad picked and peeled figs for dessert.
A glass of red before him and years

still to live. Before I understood death
in the ways I now understand death.
His smoke rings swirled          vanished
into night.                     Memories grow

teeth when I give them words. Break me
into the lines of this poem. Catch on
knots. Shape from the leavings
something new.     Something true.

Luisa Giulianetti is a Bay Area writer. Her debut collection, Agrodolce, (Bordighera Press) was released last fall. Her work appears in CALYX, Rattle, and River Heron Review. Luisa teaches and directs programs at UC Berkeley. She enjoys cooking, hiking, and exploring the expansive beauty of the place she calls home.