Beauty pulls him into a brand new place, one that does not require memory. This might be at the heart of beauty: it doesn’t require you to remember; it doesn’t even require you to be you.

When I remember my mother happy
I go back to her emerging from brambles,
a loaded bucket keeping her from dancing.

I still have
glimpses of her -
mouth wiped
on a soiled sleeve,
snow falling
on a February day,
trees etched
on a blouse of blue.

I’ll plunge into the Loing or the Seine itself,
into ultramarine and cobalt blue
I’ll wade into the waters of Giverny,
lie amongst the water lilies
madder red and cadmium yellow against emerald,
violet waters

The blade presses against the first, and the insides give way before the leather skin does. Same with the other two. My throat constricts. Shaking, I drop the knife onto the counter, pick up the avocados and press them between my hands, a non-bright green mush oozing from between my fingers, shedding their suits and seeds in my fists. You were in remission.

Nurses and doctors in hospices reported the terminally ill just suddenly feeling better. Emergency rooms had no more casualties. Heart attacks, car accidents, anything. They still happened, but everyone survived.

How could we be so different than a velociraptor
If not even worse
Eating our savior
Stop
Don’t think of it that way.
A wasp
It stings people
And it’ll never tell you why because it’s a wasp and it can’t speak