What you don’t realize is
that when they say
“start over”
they don’t mean
clean slate,
to
cut your hair
name yourself
after a famous movie star
from the twenties, they
mean it as if
you were a mountain, and
now, you’re starting over from
cooling magma and liquid gem.
You’ll have to relearn
the meaning of your name, the
curve of the “e” no longer a
monk bent in prayer, the
“y” a sleeping cat in a sunny spot,
perhaps it’s closer to something like
a scythe, a woman vomiting over a
toilet bowl. You convince yourself
to stop drumming your
fingers on the table; it’s his
pet peeve, and there’s
no way he’ll put up with it anymore, not
after the way he flinched when
his knuckles rattled over the
railroad tracks carved into your thighs.
You can’t eat chicken curry. It
reminds you too much of the
three-and-a-quarter minutes of
slippery, stabbing, knots and buckles
as your insides poured outside, a
puddle of daughter and distress glistening
beneath the fluorescent lights across the tiles.
You’ll have to forget her name; you
don’t realize it now, but
that will be harder than teaching yourself
your own.
There are words squirming your
surface, you’ll want to cut them out;
do not follow this path, the
picket fence is not as easy to climb over
as it was in your youth and
when the gravel wears through your sandals, you
don’t have the calcification to protect
the skin of your feet.
Your heart will stop beating; a
punch to the chest should get it fluttering again.
Never stop walking. Keep your eyes facing front.
A kiss from your lover is the only
comfort that will make you feel worth
the middle class childhood and private school
collegiate work.
And you will move on, you will
pick up the keychain you dropped with
trembling fingers and
you will see the early morning fog settling
around the constant blur of your tires
forever pushing northward, but
you have smudges where there should be
elbows, and
eventually, you’ll forget why, but
you’ll eat chicken curry and
cry about it later.