Page 39 - Vol. VII #1

“Fuck this,” he said. “I’m what, if not a crutch for you? A little street cred to muddy up that clear little grad school pool? I’ve met Pamela,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said. “But have you fucked her?” “She’s sixty years old.”
“So that explains it. Otherwise....”
Carl laughed.
“What?” she asked.
“Just thinking about something somebody told me,” he said.
“Was it part of the opinion poll you took on me?” “That’s what we talk about,” Carl said. “Who we love.”
“No, no,” she said. “Talking about it like that, like you’re commenting on some sporting event, handi- capping the horses...” She wasn’t supposed to get mad. He was supposed to laugh it all off. Now, he
was staying, and she would probably have to see him again, and pretend, or not pretend, to know him, re- gardless of who he was with. Despite taking all of her stuff home each time she’d spent the night, she’d left something behind.
“There’s no firm line to cross that proves you love somebody. You’ve been married, you should know that.”
“What I know,” she said, wanting to scream, but fall- ing to a near whisper. “What I know is that I’ve thrown all my crutches out.” She leaned forward across the table. “I’m one of the fucking cured. I’m one of the miracles. I’m walking out under my own power.”
She put her fork down next to her empty plates. She threw a ten-dollar bill on the table and headed to- ward the door. He wasn’t finished with his breakfast yet. He always took his time. He wouldn’t come after her. She stepped outside and stood for a second under the beat-up awning. Was the rain turning to snow? A car skidded to a stop at the light out front. It was green for her. She broke into a run, pushing through pain. If she fell, no one could catch her.
Daniels is the author of seventeen books of poems, including, most recently, Rowing Inland and Street Calligraphy. His latest book, The Perp Walk, was published by Michigan State University Press, along with his coedited anthology, RESPECT: The Poetry of Detroit Music. During his long career, he has warmed up for Lucinda Williams at the Three Rivers Arts Festival, read on Prairie Home Companion, had his poem “Factory Love” displayed on a racecar, and sent poetry to the moon with the Moon Arts Project.
“She felt like a nun who’d lost the calling but couldn’t afford her own
place outside the convent.”
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