At a party a woman I’ve never seen before
on his neck. Hera watched the sky darken with clouds from Olympus
with an ivory cow. His lover disguised, Hera knew and sent the furies
Men are animals a friend said on nights we’d watch them orbit
I ate nothing that summer but salmon and brown rice and showered
bulbs. There is more than one kind of hunger. The German cockroach
This morning I watched one crawl from behind the loose switch plate.
I found photos on his laptop of a woman—her bare back to the camera,
for days, clawing at my own bare sides, too soft in the windowless light.
Scientists are Using Light to Erase Memories in Snails
grass like hollow needles underfoot, a torn window
in a jar full of red wine in the kitchen. I remember
where I was born. In a photo, I wear a lace bib.
There’s a washed-grey sky against maple trees
we don’t remember. In a dream, my dad reaches
As a child I wagered with God, asked him to take me
people the way the living do. I’ve read that families
in Korea. In Korea, azaleas cover mountain sides.
They say we can remember things that never happened.
they ripped the sky open. I see it now—my dad and I
We watched moths stumble towards the porch light. He caught
where they became shadows against some other light.
Micaela Cameron holds an MFA from the University of Maryland and lives in Washington, D.C. Her work appears in Gulf Coast and Bodega.