1 hour ago
Pantoum for The Afterlife, or Whatever
after Jordan Ranft
No one plans for tragedy. I tell myself
stories about a place you’ll never live.
Worse things must have happened on a Wednesday, so
why can’t I think of any?
Stories about a place I’ve never lived
keep following me to the hospital, where
I can’t think of any reason
I deserve more painkillers. Today an old man’s whistle
follows me through the hospital doors. He keeps
a safe distance. I still feel his eyes.
I deserve more pain, killers and old men with whistles
tell me over stacks of paper. So I spread my legs.
No distance is safe. I can still feel his eyes:
Why didn’t you ride that mechanical bull in Denver?
Tell me over stacks of paper, so I spread my legs—
you’re holding a bouquet, then your hands are gone.
Why didn’t I ride that mechanical bull in Denver,
before it was a weapon? I would edge myself to sleep with your voice,
but you're gone, and I'm holding a bouquet in my hands.
They don’t count the boys who jump.
Before it was a weapon, I would edge myself with sleep. Now your voice
just reminds me: no one plans for tragedy.
They don’t count the boys who jump
on a Wednesday. Worse things must have happened.
after Jordan Ranft
No one plans for tragedy. I tell myself
stories about a place you’ll never live.
Worse things must have happened on a Wednesday, so
why can’t I think of any?
Stories about a place I’ve never lived
keep following me to the hospital, where
I can’t think of any reason
I deserve more painkillers. Today an old man’s whistle
follows me through the hospital doors. He keeps
a safe distance. I still feel his eyes.
I deserve more pain, killers and old men with whistles
tell me over stacks of paper. So I spread my legs.
No distance is safe. I can still feel his eyes:
Why didn’t you ride that mechanical bull in Denver?
Tell me over stacks of paper, so I spread my legs—
you’re holding a bouquet, then your hands are gone.
Why didn’t I ride that mechanical bull in Denver,
before it was a weapon? I would edge myself to sleep with your voice,
but you're gone, and I'm holding a bouquet in my hands.
They don’t count the boys who jump.
Before it was a weapon, I would edge myself with sleep. Now your voice
just reminds me: no one plans for tragedy.
They don’t count the boys who jump
on a Wednesday. Worse things must have happened.