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Michelle Zamanian

Laura Palmer is my real sister

Not Dolores, though / What’s her name? / Maybe I am just her ghost / Laura is not a ghost anymore / She changed her name and moved away / I feel like she knows me, but sometimes my arms bend back / My sister does not remember me anymore / The dead do not remember / The dead do not forget / The dead scream when they remember and live when they forget

She is always screaming.

Hands move to display something / one up / one down—

An open peach colored box of memories and make up. Teal letters and pink marks. The synapses in my brain struggle to remember her, that moment. The things I could touch. I feel this case, textured
plastic, flipping open the lid, the contents unknown. Memory is like the cheesy overlay at the end of
Mulholland Drive. Maybe none of it happened, like this. Maybe it didn’t happen. I can still hear the
music as the water falls.


Laura fire walks with me through the walls where I keep my dead—


Lynch is a queer word to use, the wrong one, to use. What is it he likes to use?
An open box. An open black box. A pit of nothingness. Foreignness.
I just started reading Jane Eyre at thirty-six. Am I too old for this? Something about Bronte. The moors will haunt you. I think that’s what they said. I think of Japan. I think of you, I think of all the things I had to leave there.


The door of my apartment shakes every time people enter or exit the outside door. It rattles my teeth
and shakes the windows.


Nothing scarier than the abyss. I think that’s what he uses. And Suburbia, maybe suburbia too.
The hayes of nostalgia and misrememberance. The knowing of not knowing anymore. The haunt of
nothing left. It was a dream.


I live inside her. Dolores. But, we only worry about the screaming.

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