by C.T. Lark
leave and visit Mt. Kisco, then Katonah, maybe Danbury (only
if you’re really bored). eventually, run out of money.
call up a friend or two or ten, then do it again until you’ve
run out of things to say. rehearse these lines: “yes, I’m
majoring in English,” “no, I don’t want to teach,”
“I just like to write—maybe I’ll be a lawyer.” remember
that you’re your mother’s daughter, or at least pretend to
remember that when she boasts: “my eldest daughter.”
take a walk, a hike, a trip—Germany or Jones Beach—
whatever gets you away for a little longer. overstay
your welcome by returning to that school. rehearse those lines:
“yes, I’m enjoying my time there,” “no, I don’t miss
high school,” “I just like to write—maybe I’ll publish
this summer.” remember that you’re still her around these parts
and don’t even try for a second to assert otherwise. disintegrate.
alternate between NyQuil, Benadryl, and Zolpidem to forget.
forget walkable communities—sidewalks are for the discontent!
stare down the barrel of an $8.49 cup of fruit. pick your skin
‘til you find a you that you like again. don’t you dare forget
to say your lines: “yes, I’m glad to be home,” “no, I’m not
choking; my ribs are cracking just fine,” “I just like to write—
maybe that will get me out this time.”