DEBEVEC-MCKENNEY, Sasha

I’m not writing because I’m finally in Love

I’m trying to increase my suffering

in other ways — jogging very early

in the morning, all this dental work

in quick succession, my numb mouth,

wet drool, I try to make life hurt again,

shoes too tight, thighs rubbing together,

plucking thin hairs off my bent knees,

some days I eat vegetarian while

the rotisserie chicken in my fridge begs

to be torn apart. I stop at yellow lights now.

Whatever it takes to increase production.

As I sit idling in front of a passing train,

ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, the cars

behind me reversing, turning back —

but I’m in love and I don’t have anything else

to do. I know the sad train ends.

What Am I Afraid Of?

The silence, the thoughts

that come with it, the sinking

suspicion that something more

is wrong with me than anyone

knows, including myself, including

the doctor who hooked me up

to the EKG machine and said

that though my heartbeat was irregular,

the irregularity was normal.

It was nothing to worry about.

The doctor told me there are two kinds

of people: unhealthy people who refuse

to get help, and healthy people

who always think they’re dying.

Nobody’s in between. But I’ve met

so many kinds of people:

people who stretch before

they get out of bed, people

who walk through life unstretched,

people who think their body

is a house and people who don’t

think of their body at all.

People who peel their carrots,

people who don’t. People who

stand on the roof and let the wind

make them cry. People who are afraid

to cry. People who step on all the leaves

on the sidewalk, people who look

straight ahead. There are people

who aren’t like me, they

don’t know the names

of all the different apples.

Once when I was cashiering

a woman said to me, “Wow,

you really know your kale.”

And once, at the butcher shop,

a man said to his dog, “That’s

the nice lady who smells like meat.”

I’m afraid I don’t know

what kind of person I am.

I thought I would get a chance

to do my life over in all the ways

anyone could think of: dying

would be like changing the channel.

I hate that you can’t hold on

to anything. I was washing an apple

and then I was coring it

and then it was cut—

and that was weeks ago now.

It was a Honeycrisp, and it lived up

to its name.