Shriek of gulls, rain-pregnant cloud, salt-n-vinegar, lip-licking anticipation,
Wind of wings by your face, thieving birds, spray of chips,
Running for cover, heart thumping, mac sleeves swishing,
Friend-sweary-hugs and squawking, burping laughter.
Does this moment weigh the same as any other
You carry in your pocket?
Is a memory of cold calamine lotion on a stinging-nettle welt,
Or the sharp moon in a blue and orange sky as you tasted your first kiss,
And gave away your unripe heart,
Easier or harder to carry than one of hot, soupy air,
Thick with the stink of freshly cleaved people,
Of blood and bitter bile?
Or is it all the same?
These heavy steps.
Feet like magnets to the ground.
Can’t stand up straight.
Each time I empty my pockets,
There are more pockets.
An iPod full of songs weighs more than one without.
Is a memory like a song?
Is a love song heavier than a funeral march?
Jen If is a writer published in Deracine, Caustic Frolic, Flights of the Dragonfly and Streetcake Experimental Writing Magazine. She has a Bachelors degree in English Literature and a Masters in Creative Writing. Jen writes poetry, short stories and prose from life.