Poem Dreamt on a Plane, or, Fragility

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This piece appears in the Los Angeles Review of Books Quarterly Journal: The Occult, No. 22 

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Poem Dreamt on a Plane, or, Fragility

There was a mouse. I didn’t have eyes. I was sitting in an aisle seat, got up, blocked the passageway, told passengers: ¡there’s a mouse in this plane! Not even the mouse cared — she lived in this plane. She approached, her whiskers sensing thunderstorms. I sat there, waiting. Then, I woke. Got my computer out, began writing there was a mouse, changed the font from Times to Garamond. Sensing — years after she walked into the Washington Square Park fountain with all her clothes on in late October, drunk from red wine she’d downed at the dinner I told her I’d stopped loving her, perhaps never loved her, she cried so much her eyes puffed up like she didn’t have eyes, & I didn’t do, or say, anything — there’s a chance she’ll read this. G, I’m trying to return my fragility but I don’t have a receipt. I was oblivious to apologizing — I’d misunderstood. You are not a cashier. I should never have said “you’re crazy,” “jealous,” “stupid,” “calm down,” drank so much. Somehow I end up pointing at my father, uncles, grandfathers, but it’s me who opened my mouth. I’m sorry. 

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Javier Zamora's first collection of poems is called Unaccompanied.