These Are Not Metaphors


There’s been a spoon rattling around the bottom of my purse for nearly four months now. I keep forgetting to take it out. It’s one of those shitty ones that bend if you press it hard with your thumb.

There are three bruises on the inside of my left arm, arranged like points on an obtuse triangle. Source unknown.

In the hospital she kept ordering “a salad and yogurt and a glass of chardonnay please.” She doesn’t remember this.

Three dreams in the last week about waves taller than a house. All rogue waves, one after another.

“You need to cool it with your steps,” she said. Then: “Fine, get the hell out soon.”

I’ve been looking at my right index finger and thinking how quickly the gash from broken glass had healed, only then remembering it’s my left index finger and the wound is still scabbed over.

Mercury is in retrograde and the car didn’t have an extra key.

He explained how the basement of the theater was haunted, how every morning when the director comes to work, she stops in the entryway and says, “Hello, gentlemen.” If she doesn’t, the ghosts play pranks on her all day.


They took the scaffolding down the day after I moved out.

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