[BIAS 2]

Cori A. Winrock

I                        You

I blow through the house—a night
(what anatomy does) gown of

alveoli, my lung
sacks full of voice-less

you you; laces of this and
ribs enclose—lisp lisp

I am sss
I am s

my heart is.

Each morning I awake: my grief is up
already, an early

riser. My steps slush through.

I                         you

(arctics and over-
coats) metered up a hill,
breath pressed inside

out. My heart is.
Is is.

My heart in the language
of the left half. Patience, adieu.

I jot down
I burn into, line the left
cuff of my fall

dress coat. Warm paper
sewn into the hem of my sleeve:
and this and this and this  and
My love,
I was—

inaccessible, we turn
from each other—a clot
shivering loose.







This poem is from a series on the evolutionary byproducts of human memory. The neurological concept of bias is a revolving door, involves the ways we enter/exit/re-write previous experiences & selves to better fit our subsequent identities: past becomes a vanishing into, the apparatus of current belief & feeling, an always was. When writing Bias1 I was attempting an exacted excavation, dissecting a memory from each side. Bias2, however, is the disjoined twin—the unforeseen otherheart of the re-memory.