Parkside & Ocean b ferguson there is a kind of memory that feels, somehow suddenly, like a wound, though not always, not until one wanders back through: the dark, damp alley the only path  toward home—every place i have loved has forced me to leave. and then there is memory as one might always wish:  bejeweled, like sugar on the tongue upon reentry. what is the name for the scent that whispers mother, the twanged hue of evening that gestures island, limestone, cane, spume? Flatbush, i have sauntered away from everything that has called me kin now, as i have before, [...]