by JS Gilbert
My friend’s cousin’s name was Becky. She
lived in Ottumwa, wore sneakers and a ponytail.
Each summer she’d ride the year-end school bell
into town, radiating an aura of balloon
races and farrowing. Once, I think,
she touched my arm.
‘Cecelia’ reminds me of her, still. Not because
she broke my heart, but because I made her laugh.
My father took
the Barry Manilow
records; my mother
took me.
I was his first son,
yet he, I believe,
never once
made me cry.
Columbia House introduced me to Gerald Levert
in 1991, before methamphetamines replaced cassette
tapes as the drug of choice for nice, Iowa boys.
I couldn’t say no to the nice lady on the phone,
and to this day freeze in the face of the entire
service industry. Servers, cashiers, mechanics all
want to know where I want to do and suddenly I’m
that fox we passed on I-75 caught in a rictus
of terrified indecision, knowing that things have
drastically changed, things are bigger, things are
faster, and I do not understand except that they
expect an answer, a crossing, at their convenience.
