I’m blown away, all flecks and specks of flesh torn asunder by an absolute banger poem about someone else’s basement from their youth that somehow transforms into a very memorable metaphor for their life. This poem has it all, pure 90’s nostalgia, with a hint of horror driven by references to their childhood home on Elm Street (hello, Mr. Kruger), and then an evocative modern-day turn that captures the meaning of the title. Just as a memory palace exercise asks us to come up with unique, imaginative ways to remember something, I won’t soon forget the bloated tomato paste can, the white mask with no eyes, only more wall behind them, or Greta, the forgotten department store mannequin with her breasts bared for all the plumbers to ogle.
Read it for yourself on the New Yorker website.