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      August 8, 2023David HernandezRemember It Wrong

      Everyone’s memory is subjective. If in three weeks we
      were both interviewed about what went on here
      tonight, we would both probably have very, very
      different stories.
      —James Frey on
      Larry King Live

      My front four teeth are gone, I have a hole in my
      cheek, my nose is broken and my eyes are swollen
      nearly shut.
      —James Frey, from
      A Million Little Pieces

      But I was there, 12C, window seat, and there
      was no blood anywhere except the blue kind
      making blue roots under the skin of our wrists.
      From what I recall his teeth were all present,
      ivory and symmetrical, one pristine incisor
      flushed against the next like marble tiles.
      Teeth other teeth aspire to be. I saw no hole
      in his cheek but a razor nick or new pimple,
      some red blip on his otherwise unblemished face.
      Boyish. Babyish, even. The only holes
      were the two he breathed from and the one
      called a mouth that demanded another pillow,
      headphones, club soda, more ice.
      His nose was intact, straight as the tailfin
      dividing the sky behind us. There was turbulence,
      the plane a dragonfly in a windstorm.
      My cup of Cabernet sloshed, my napkin bled,
      a bag rumbled in the overheard bin like a fist
      pounding inside a coffin. I was calm, I fly
      all the time, but the man in question
      was quivering and paler than a hardboiled egg.
      Eyes swollen open, eyes skittering and green.
      Or brown or blue. Memory is a murky thing,
      always changing its mind. Interview me again
      in three weeks and maybe I’ll remember
      his wounds, the way my grandmother
      gradually put down the knife after she spread
      butter on her napkin. Slowly the disease worked,
      slowly erasing slowly what her brain slowly
      recorded over the slowly decades. Memory
      is a mysterious thing, shadow of a ghost,
      nebulous as the clouds we pierced on our descent,
      Chicago revealing itself in my little window
      like dust blown from a photo of someone
      it takes you a moment to recognize.

      from #32 - Winter 2009

      David Hernandez

      “You wrote ‘Remember It Wrong’ in July of 2007. You don’t remember much from that experience other than typing ‘babyish’ for the first time in your life. You wonder why ‘babyish’ isn’t used more often in poetry and why ‘honeysuckle’ stays in fashion despite wearing the same pair of bellbottoms year after year. You remember Toughskins. Their durability. Your grandmother removing grass-stains with a scrub brush.”