Tue, 25 November

LINOCUT TUESDAY I. The doctor holds a card up— what was on the other side? I knew it once. I knew it the way I knew my phone number at seven, the way I knew the road home before they changed the intersection. II. They ask you to count backward from a number that sounds simple until it isn't. Seven from a hundred. Seven from ninety-three. Somewhere around seventy-two you realize subtraction is a kind of faith. III. Between appointments the car knows the route. The windshield holds three-quarters cloud, one-quarter everything else. I am the quarter. IV. Evening. The onion gives under the knife cleanly, each ring a year I remember. The pan receives the oil. The oil receives the heat. The heat does not ask me to count backward from anything. V. Progress is the word they use. I prefer the other one— the one where you just keep showing up and the plates find the table and the table holds.