This morning I forget to be awake. It is afternoon
when I realize my toes won’t crack today. I write
in my journal I refuse to miss the best moment
of tomorrow. Tomorrow I will write in my journal
I refuse. My favorite poems to read are the ones
that could be about me. My vanity mirror is a framed
photo of me looking at a framed photo of me
thinking about the crispness of my back. My OCD
is majestic. I skin the top layer of soap with my
fingernail. I scrub my palms with the soap that comes
inside the soap. I will only use the soap that has never
fallen in love with a factory conveyor belt. I ask my skinned
soap What if the mountains get sick of being so tall?
I ask my skinned soap What if she just doesn’t come home
today? I imagine her on a highway, everything is in black
and white. She smiles, turns up the radio static. I imagine
her on a highway, wearing sunglasses at dawn, a scarf
almost choking her, the mountains sucking in their bellies
so they can call themselves New England hiccups
instead of New England mountaintops. Everything is still
in black and white. I rub the roof of my mouth
with my tongue like it’s a genie’s bottle.
This poem originally appeared in the sunglasses-at-night-driving-without-headlights Volume 7 of The Ampersand Review.
Gregory Sherl is the author of Heavy Petting (YesYes Books, 2011) and The Oregon Trail Is the Oregon Trail, a novella in verse, forthcoming from Mud Luscious Press, January 2012 and I Have Touched You, a chapbook of linked stories, available now from Dark Sky Books.