Mnemonic by Li-Young Lee I was tired. So I lay down. My lids grew heavy. So I slept. Slender memory, stay with me. I was cold once. So my father took off his blue sweater. It is the sweater he wore to America, this one, which I've grown into, whose sleeves are too long, whose elbows have thinned, who outlives its rightful owner. Flambuoyant blue in daylight, poor blue by daylight, it is black in the folds. A serious man who devised complex systems of numbers and rhymes to aid him in remembering, a man who forgot nothing, my father would be ashamed of me. Not because I'm forgetful, but because there's no order to my memory, a heap of details, uncatalogued, illogical. For instance: God was lonely. So he made me. My father loved me. So he spanked me. It hurt him to do so. He did it daily. The earth is flat. Those who fall off don't return. The earth is round. All things reveal themselves to men gradually. I wan't last. Memory is sweet. Even when it's painful, memory is sweet. -- FINALE --

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