If You Had No Memories, How Would You Understand What You've Become?

A Memory of the Players in a Mirror at Midnight by James Joyce
They mouth love's language. Gnash
The thirteen teeth
Your lean jaws grin with. Lash
Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh.
Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung,
As sour as cat's breath,
Harsh of tongue.

This grey that stares
Lies not, stark skin and bone.
Leave greasy lips their kissing. None
Will choose her what you see to mouth upon.
Dire hunger holds his hour.
Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears.
Pluck and devour!
.

Your heart, a fruit of tears. The question remains. My memories have legs tonight. They'll ramble in the chaparral, chasing tornadoes. When they wander afield like this we call them ghosts. Those apparitions are dangerous if confronted.