Nine Hundred Office Hours
The student sat in the student chair, told me
a long story about how there would be big changes
in her family soon. I had a yellow notepad out on my desk,
chose a black-ink pen. The smut loved to smear itself
across every page, cursed my left hand, climbed into
my skin to sit shotgun. I drew two circles like lenses.
In one I wrote Side A. In the other I wrote Side B.
She reached over my doodling hands, took
the tissue box for herself. Oklahoma grief, flattened
subdivisions, husks of Christ, paired insect legs
holding fast to oakbark, so easy to sweep them
off into Augustine grass. Her brother is getting out
of prison soon. His arms thick and workout confident,
he can lift one corner of city hall, just long enough
to make his point. Well taken. I get the feeling
she has roughly nine hundred children. I get the feeling
she has roughly nine hundred jobs. I get
the feeling she has roughly nine hundred
exes. Like her brother, they all have tobacco
arms, thick and confident. But their faces
are weary. I get the feeling she is used to being
ignored, nine hundred times a day. She’s hoping
to pass her kidney stone. But today, she’s collecting
signatures for a state-wide petition. She says, did you know,
everyone has to declare party affiliation before they can vote?
And this year, there is no vote. Only a basket
of muffins and scones and biscuits and cakes
and crumpets. Here’s a napkin, and a plastic fork.
Choose your favorite, your second
favorite too.
Talking in Your Sleep
Two police sirens in two hours,
both with a Milanese rhythm.
On the kitchen table, a grey box with eleven
assorted candies. I choose the tangerine.
Unwrap a thin, pale beast. Like a cataract,
or thickened fluid in a cyst.
When the scalpel cuts across the bulge,
a release—coolness on the neck.
Or the inner thigh. The join of left arm
to torso. The sixth floor, our luggage
piled on the couch, the coffee table. You sleep
in the bedroom, into your tenth hour.
I bend to scractch between my toes. Tiny scraps
of earth. I lift up a few grey-brown bits
and lay them out on the table. Let me breathe in
what they know. Turns out, only the chorus
from an old Crystal Gayle song. Back when country
tasted like fondent. Proud smearings
on anniversary cakes. And everyone had anniversaries
then. Every week alive was a miracle.
I stand and rest my ear along the wall that separates
us. You are dreaming Lombard peppers,
chopping and chopping. Remember to save
the seeds, in a wide
blue bowl.
