Muscle Memory

Learn to ride a bicycle, and motion
becomes procedural; a ritual
of everyday: bare toes curl around pedals, hair whips
in mouth, each leg thrust develops
the process—
things built into the system repeat
until the body contracts,
comfort unearthed within. But
what to do with this kissed
palm, this finger-tipped face?
Stored in the sinew stretched between
muscles wound and bound, forgettable
no longer. A pattern

executes without notice; the movements
aren’t stored. The body does not hold
the key to its own memory. It is the brain
[always and only] recalling
what was lost, deciding what will stay
on in maps of motor skills, help re-live
you: the unforgotten.
Remember when we thought this was enough?
When we thought we could ride each other
into a forgiveness?