Consider Yourselves All “Debbie”
Dear Debbie, why is it so hard
to understand? The accident was
me. It was in me, it was on me,
it keeps getting written all over
my face. Watch your tongue,
you might say, or, go ahead
and fix your face. But help is
on the other side, Debbie,
my good one, it’s stuck in profile,
Debbie, it’s not on its way.
Use our arms as your arms,
the ditch lilies beckon. There,
they say, now you know what it’s like
to be pleasantly ignored. We keep
all the wrong appointments,
Debbie. Sunday bleeds into Monday
and unlike flowers, Monday
will not be ignored. Because.
Because. Because, Debbie,
Monday is ugly and awkward
and never knows what you really
just don’t want to hear. Because
Monday is the last person
you want to see right now
but there she is again. Because
time is a wheel, Debbie. Because
I am Monday and Monday is this
accident, Debbie. How many times
do I have to tell you?
Lisa Olstein is the author of three books of poems, most recently Little Stranger (Copper Canyon Press, 2013). She teaches in the MFA programs at the University of Texas at Austin.
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