I Suppose

by Rick Salamé, Kim Sarnoff, Eli Neuman-Hammond & Mika Kligler

published May 1, 2015

I got tired of waiting, so I microwaved my bag of lentils and gave it to her.
Did you hear, she asked, about the man who got trapped?
I nodded and lifted another slab of snow. Why didn’t he call anyone for 19 days?
I suppose, when you get to that age, you’ve been through a lot, and you don’t want, to call someone, and tell them, it finally happened. 

I spoke to the trout skull after the flood. Are you molting, I asked, as his bones flecked in current?
He flecked, and I knew I had picked the right question.
Who carries your bones now?
I suppose, in the echo, you don’t want to know that your body was sound. 

Night-ghost, you are denim stretched taut over smoke.
Where did the bee get its buzzing liquor?
It falters and sways and finally sinks toward the old mirror, burning, through itself and into gone. Was it just a cotton-sheltered dream?
I suppose it was the liquor store. 

I rub my feet together when I sleep, as if they are little bodies wrestling.
On the phone, mom asks: are you sleeping enough?
You seem restless. She’s menopausal, wideawake from 4am on.
I’m not implying anything
but do you ever think you’re spending too many hours on craigslist?
I suppose I feel like I’m always trying, these days, to put things back on shelves I can’t quite reach.