Her memories were grouped

Into 3 separate compartments:

1. the oven of her heart
2. the dishwasher of her soul
3. the cooler of her mind


A bodyguard to herself
She hardly stored anything
In her heart
Its oven remained arctic
Its dial set to “OFF”
It was only when that RARE mystical tree
(with raw bleeding bark)
Erupted in her garden
Did she chop it down
Into perfumed logs
And feed it to her oven
She would glow through the night:
A spicy golden bread
A walking feast


A select few memories
(the perfectly carnal type)
Would stagnate for days
Like dirty dessert dishes
She would linger over them
Picking at a lover’s high calorie crumbs
Mingling with maple syrup
She would soon load
These plates
Into her soul
Switch on its dishwasher
And rinse away
All the naughty leftovers
With a pious detergent
Until what was left:
Was presentable
For her china cabinet display


Most of her memories
(good or bad)
Were bottled, chilled, and lined up
In her mind
Its cooler acting as a diet soda machine
Saccharine diluted any emotional alcohol
Thru nostalgia or denial
She would drink
These “healthy” beverages
Out of thirst or habit
But always
With a comforting lack of guilt

About the Author:
James Mirarchi grew up in Queens, New York. In addition to his poetry collections, 'Venison' and 'Dervish’, he has written and directed short films, which have played at festivals. He has also penned a feature script - a dark comedy titled 'Proxy’.