Free The Book of Goodbyes by Jillian Weise Page A

market. “Are you single?” the man
    behind the counter asks. What to think?
    For meals, you are inside a couple.

    From inside the couple, you have someone
    to call while standing in line. “Does your
    girlfriend know?” you must never ask.

    Instead, “So many fish and which?”
    The laws of attraction are this: There are
    no laws of attraction. A person likes

    a person. Both parties like each other
    and in each other enjoy being liked.
    Baste the fish in lemon and butter.

    They say it takes time to meet people.
    Do you agree? Sleep with your friend.
    Disagree? Cut him off. Put it in the oven.

I’VE BEEN WAITING ALL NIGHT

    I reckon you were asleep with your girl
    before the phone rang. Make something up.

    I’ve been waiting all night to tell you
    about the couple in post-War France,

    the woman fresh in her grave
    and the man who didn’t like his mistress dead,

    no sir, and so exhumed her, to the dismay
    of his wife, who had him arrested

    for the stink he made.
    She was reburied, returned to the dead.

    After jail, he dug her up to fuck again.
    Attached suction cups and crafted

    a wig from a broom. You can go now.
    I’m more in the mood than you’re used to.

CAFÉ LOOP

    She’s had it easy, you know. I knew her
    from FSU, back before she was disabled.

    I mean she was disabled but she didn’t
    write like it. Did she talk like it?

    Do you know what it is exactly?
    She used to wear these long dresses

    to cover it up. She had a poem
    in
The Atlantic
. Yes, I’ll take water.

    Me too. With a slice of lemon.
    It must be nice to have
The Atlantic
.

    Oh, she’s had it easy all right.
    She should come out and state

    the disability. She actually is very
    dishonest. I met her once at AWP.

    Tiny thing. Limps a little. I mean not
    really noticeable. What will you have?

    I can’t decide. How can she write
    like she’s writing for the whole group?

    I mean really. It’s kind of disgusting.
    It’s kind of offensive. It’s kind of

    a commodification of the subaltern
    identity. Should we have wine?

    Let’s have something light. It makes
    you wonder how she lives with herself.

    I wouldn’t mind. I would commodify
    and run. She’s had it easy.

    I can’t stand political poetry.
    She never writes about it critically.

    If it really concerns her, she should
    just write an article or something.

    I heard she’s not that smart. My friend
    was in class with her and he said

    actually she’s not that smart.
    I believe it. I mean the kind of language

    she uses, so simple, elementary.
    My friend said she actually believes

    her poems have speakers. Oh, that’s rich.
    I’m sorry but if the book is called

    amputee
and you’re an
amputee
    then you are the speaker.

    So New Criticism. Really I don’t like
    her work at all. I find it lacking.

HOW TO TREAT FLOWERS

    Take the flowers directly home. Make no sloppy small talk with women biting into oranges on park benches. Do not leave the flowers in the car, not even if you are the kind of guy who has a sun visor and dark-tinted windows. You must never leave the flowers in the car.

    *

    If the flowers are carnations—why? Wasn’t she worth roses? Wasn’t there a summer bouquet with a few sprigs of baby’s breath, one or two roses and maybe a lily? You cheapskate. Why are you such a cheapskate?

    *

    Leave the flowers on the kitchen table, in their clear plastic wrap, beside the blender. She will cut the plastic wrap with her favorite pair of white-handled scissors.

    *

    You buy the flowers. She cuts the stems, runs water warm, sprinkles sugar in the water, because somewhere, if you heard her correctly, somewhere before you (you forgot there was a
before you
) another man told her to put the flowers in sugar water.

    *

    None of this will happen in time. C. S. Lewis swears all of time is written on an 8 × 11 piece of paper and the paper is God. You