Today's prompt will require that you use a little memory, but not your own; because for today's prompt you need to write a poem about a moment (or moments) you can't remember yourself that are about yourself. I think everyone has these stories about when you were a child, or when you were drunk, or when you were talking in your sleep, or when you were in a coma (hopefully not too many fall into this category actually).
If you need to jog your memory of things you can't personally remember, call up a friend or relative. I'm sure they'll be more than happy to recount those embarrassing moments for you.
For instance, we have a family reunion every year on Labor Day weekend up in northwest Indiana for my mom's side of the family. There are usually more than 100 family members in attendance, and they ALL know the "tree story" about when I was three years old. You see, I was at one of my aunt's houses and had to use the restroom, but they were all full. So my grandparents told me to go outside and relieve myself behind the tree. So my three-year-old self marched out there and rounded the tree one full circle and shouted back at the house, "Where's the 'behind' of this tree?"
Ah, sweet memories. I don't remember it personally, but every year on Labor Day weekend, 100+ people are ready to remind me.
And with that, here's my poem for the day:
My brother hung upside down
screaming his head off while my
face was covered in blood,
gushing from my eyebrow. But
I didn't cry--just kept touching
my face. Maybe in shock of
the closeness of pain. Maybe
why I wasn't afraid to hug
strangers at King's Island as
a child. After hugging people
in Yogi Bear and Fred Flintstone
suits, it probably only made
sense to hug others I'd never
met. With a big smile on my
face. Something people always
notice even when I don't know
I'm doing it. One night, I scared
my wife by calling out in my sleep
that Saddam Hussein was hiding
in our trashcan. Who knows
what I was dreaming? But then,
maybe it made complete sense
like the time I tried going pee
behind the tree at my aunt's
only to ask, "Where's the behind
to this tree?" Something my
family won't let me forget.
Like this scar on my eyebrow
reminding me the memory of