They come back to me

like acid reflux.
One memory clings to my chest,

another lingers, floats

in my gut, my throat—
I begin to distract myself

with more alkaline thoughts:
my mother listening to Abdel Wahab,

humming along as she puts on her mascara,
or your neroli scent filling a corridor.
I worry these too might become acidic,

this heartburn a habit,

another void-filler.
How to live with my ability to remember?

Not everything I swallow is good for me.