I read about an archaeological dig in Alaska
where they upturned multiple layers of earth
and began to smell something cooking.
Aroma, there in the dirt: acrid shadow
of a sizzle, silvery salmon skin crisping, nuts
cracking in high heat, seal meat dripping
fat over flame. Who knew. When
I imagined being Indiana Jones
I thought of arrowheads and jaw bones,
pottery shards and faceless dolls, fabric
scraps lovelier than anything I wear.
I thought treasure, not memory. I thought
there was a difference. I can’t help
but roll up my sleeves. I ask other people
to hand me their memories caked
in hard brown mud. They always hesitate
but then unpack an entire trove. I chip away
at each artifact with a sharpened trowel;
I find edges with a stiff brush. Everything
is more beautiful warmed in someone else’s
hands. I keep asking my father to sing
songs he learned on fishing boats, like I don’t
already know them by heart. I keep asking
my mother to tell me about that day she walked
into the ocean in a big fur coat. I wrote it out
years ago. I just like it in her voice.
