No Help for That | Jackie Clark

Today the water in my Poland Spring

bottle tastes like hot sauce. When I walk

outside it starts raining. I think about you

& groan silently to myself. My catalog

of discrepancies hovers over the picture

of the knife-holder that I found, the one

where the knives go through the heart

& through the leg & through the pelvic

region. I mentally chain-smoke as I watch

the lights go from green to yellow to green

again. The water from week-old flowers

would taste better than this. Paige doesn’t

return my messages & no one else sends

any even though I am sure I deserve at least

one which accurately describes my sensibility,

the coveted glove & the way it is politely

removed. We all have ideas about the way

people are. I can’t go out some nights because

I have too many. I’ve walked at least five

blocks today with an upturned umbrella.

My personal submarine may never resurface

& the noise of fish faces bumping up against

my little window might be the only thing left

to lull me to sleep. Everything already feels

crafted, combed through exacerbation like glued

together driftwood. How does this represent

the after now or the before? My expository

glands are already sweaty in anticipation.

My least of all, my at most. I don’t know

who I think I am, stop asking. Go prop

yourself up against the depth of the yard

& the reach of the grass, over there where

the worlds ends. I’ll take the sample-size

exaltation please. You can analyze my face

from behind a well lit counter while I push

an empty cart from entrance to exit.