The Last Daffodil, Or How to Become Famous Inside the Take No Heroes Hotel

The window
seat is the aisle
seat. It’s too damn small. Claustrophobia

can be triggered
at any moment. Am I
the only one

who heard you
expose that moment

a young woman jumps
off

a moving
merry-go-round
to change her life? An island known

for brass rings. But now it’s the back
of a larger jet, not
a bus. And the word

turbulence is a curse. Gravel
roads and potholes
in the sky over

Ohio and Wisconsin. No,
it must be the Great
Lakes. Each

and every one. And rivers
that flow too slowly

or not at all. You belted out
the question:

“Is it Mine?” There was nothing

there to be yours
yet. When there was,
you didn’t want it.

(Did I?) And then
it was gone. Name it. Go

ahead. Name.

It. I

dare you. And

I will not offer
suggestions. And

once named, you can
forget it—me. Yeah,
thought so. Descending

over the Mississippi, a landing
so smooth.

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