Quilt

As a high school graduation gift my Auntie Donna sewed a quilt
of cut up t-shirts: all of my school and sport and sweat stained shirts
neatly dissected into small squares and stiched into one.
I've never used the blanket once. It sits on the shelf in my childhood bedroom,

where I haven't lived in six years, sixteen years, sixty years. 

When I lived there I held my own hand so I didn't get lost but did 

every time I stepped out. I tried a leash, a seat belt, velcro, and all types of tape. 

I cut myself open to slip in a chip so I'd know where I was. 

Every time I put a pen to paper, I was making a map of where I'd been. 

I met myself at every party but never remembered my name until I left the room. 

I only remembered the scraps of things, cut from old days and useless,

my memory of self a quilt less warm than the cloth that it was cut from.