This is not a confession
I don’t owe you one
I have no account
to give you, no place.
Let me try on Google Maps
grey squares and green stains
to jog up my memory
to gift it matter and body.

Sure, let me look online for that.

Definitely wasn’t the one on Wisconsin
with clean-looking women on the walls
and late-capitalism-induced smiles, white-
washed professional portrait photography.

Maybe it’s one without a picture. I’m sure.
It was on the second floor of a shitty mall
a bus-stop outside, the largest sanitary pad
the armchairs to wait one hour, safety reasons.

But the algorithm doesn’t work like memory.

Maybe a trace in my email, I command-F
termination, D&C, TOP or STOP,
follow-up appointment. I never went.
(I just searched these terms online,

still don’t know the procedure). Inbox replies—
Follow-up on your readings for next week
Your contribution to the journal, votre traduction du texte
We are pleased to inform you that your application—

I probably erased the email.

All that’s left is trace, future
space and
the possibility that came after
that possibility I had them suck out.

I’ve lost the spot on the map
the fire, the biggest snow of my life
a white polaroid square in the ashes
traces coming to the snow.

I don’t have an account for you.

Let me look for that online,
the algorithm doesn’t work like memory.
I probably erased the email
I don’t have an account for you.

And I don’t owe you one
neither joy nor pain
I don’t owe you the loss and the gift
of the words I mourn.

On that mourning I built myself.