Nevermore

“What was the name of that poem
about the raven?”
she asks.

“It’s called 
‘The Raven,’ ”
I say.

“No, not that one.
The one about the raven
picking at a body.”

“I don’t know that one, Mom,”
I shrug.  “I don’t know the name
of every poem ever written
about a raven.”

She’s convinced me
to come back here
where I haven’t been for years —

back among the marred wood
on every piece of furniture
in the family room,

a dent
in the unpainted drywall,
perfectly placed at the level 
of a ten year old’s 
head.

She runs her hand
over the depression.

“You knew the name once,”
she says, as her hand flutters away from the wall.
“It was a good poem.  You knew a lot
of good poems, and all their names.”

“I know.  I used to have a memory for things,
Ma.  
I used to have a mind like a trap. Now..”