The Memory Machine

Saliym Malik

Again,

you return to your memory machine.

That invisible box at your bedside.

You put your palm on it.

The memory machine coughs.

Then three.

Two.

One.

A receipt snails its way out.

****************************************

**************Begin Memory**************

**************May 31, 202X***************

****************************************

Cop: Can you please step out of the vehicle?

You: of course

Cop: Please place your keys on top of the vehicle.

Walk away from the vehicle

and put your hands up.

Are there any drugs or alcohol in the vehicle?

You: no

Cop: Do you know that your registration is expired

and so is your insurance?

Do you know that driving around

without insurance is illegal?

That’s why your plate didn’t come up.

You: ...

Cop: If you had insurance

I woulda been able to let you go with a ticket.

I have to tow your vehicle.

Wait here and step away from the vehicle.

You: o-kay

****************************************

When he walks away you notice gravity.

How as each car passes,

a weightless lift beneath your shoes.

Eyes looking at the black boy on the bridge,

the one in the fitted, black Basquiat hat.

****************************************

What’d he do?

****************************************

Why Nigga?

****************************************

Criminal!

****************************************

Eyes talking as they climb the ramp.

Gravity again bringing you back.

****************************************

**************Memory Cont***************

**************May 31, 202X***************

****************************************

Cop: Do you have anyone who can pick you up from here?

I can’t let you drive the vehicle.

You: No. Maybe my friend.

Cop: Give them a call I’m gunna go get your ticket.

You: ...

Cop: Your charges are as follows XXX-XXX-XXXXX

...you will need to appear in court on that date

[June 12, 202X].

You: Am I going to jail?

Cop: No, this is a formal proceeding.

The judge will review what happened

and give you your ticket.

Cop: Your friend coming?

Is there somewhere I can take you?

You: The gas station at the bottom of the ramp.

Cop: I could take you to the precinct, it’s got AC.

You: The gas station is fine

****************************************

It was kinetic black. The hat.

A black that chewed the air.

A black that made you blacker.

****************************************

Mom: You look really nice today.

You: ...

****************************************

BF: You look like my hood fantasy.

You: ...

****************************************

**************Memory Cont***************

**************May 31, 202X***************

****************************************

The back of the cop car was silent and clean.

No smell; no seatbelt.

Just leather and bars on windows.

Tinted plexi-glass between you

and the cop driving.

You watched a straw wrapper and dust

fight on the floor.

A slight pressure in your head.

****************************************

The hat was on you.

****************************************

**************Memory Cont***************

**************May 31, 202X***************

****************************************

That hat is still on you.

****************************************

You: what do you do outside this?

Cop: I paint.

You: do you still paint?

Cop: Not much, been slow.

What about you?

You: I’m a poet

& a writer who definitely

has something to write about.

Cop: No hard feelings man.

You: None taken.

How’s your day going?

Cop: Been slow.

****************************************

In the black hat you are fearless

holding your BF’s hand on the boardwalk.

****************************************

You: ...

Other Black Boy: ...

****************************************

In the black hat

you take a picture with your hands between your legs

your arms flexed; your eyes low.

A real boy.

****************************************

**************Memory Cont***************

**************May 31, 202X***************

****************************************

In the black hat you have that same pose,

as you wait for your friend in the sun.

On the sidewalk.

Where the cop left you.

****************************************

Eyes talking as they see you.

****************************************

hat.

****************************************

man.

****************************************

black.

****************************************

hat.

****************************************

**************Memory End****************

**************Take Receipt***************

****************************************

You read the receipt paper. You go back to sleep.

****************************************

The next night, the order of memories that come out

of the memory machine are different. But they are all

the same.

****************************************

The next night, the order of memories that come out

of the memory machine are different. But they are all

the same. Except: the hat is on everyone's heads.

****************************************

The next night, the order of memories that come out

of the memory machine are different. But they are all

the same. Except: the hat is on everyone’s heads,

Basquiat is crying and you are walking around with

burning black skin.

INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

(1) What diasporas do you write into, and what diasporas do you write to create?

I am writing to my people who are now trees, because they were never allowed to speak. I am writing to my people who are now sky, as they were never grounded safely on this EARTH. I am writing to/for what has felt the realest to me, in my life, in this dimension. A kind of future-archive-story.

(2) Where does this piece land within the greater history, body, and/or evolution of your work?

This piece was the first time I spoke to the unknown aspects of my memories and my nightmares. The only way I could get it out. Something long and american and burned and unruly. A heartfelt-black-queer dysphoria. Moments seen through multiple apertures.

(3) How do "xenolithic edges” show up in your piece?

If it were a body part of mine, this piece would be my right palm, familiar and foreign, a memory mapping lines of police and boyness and terror, a folding of words through fingertips into a rolling receipt. Something formally expansive to fold into our planet, an edge.

S*A*L*I*Y*M* IS AN ORANGE SOUL WRITING UNRULY, WEIRD ESSAYS.

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