He knew, he said, he was dying
when for two straight weeks he dreamed of
trying to switch on a swing-arm
lamp that wouldn’t switch on. In baths
I’ve never gone—as they do in the movies,
to demonstrate crux and contemplation—
totally under the water, but if
I did, I would ponder the woman
flooring it into the cinderblock
wall from fifty feet away. I don’t think that image
comes from the movies. I think it comes
from the future. The future, with its color
palette of airport whites and its
unrushed glance, its involuted
beckoning. I see it. I can see it. At least
somebody wants me.
contributor
contributor
Natalie Shapero is the author of the poetry collections Hard Child and No Object. She teaches at Tufts University.
