Learned Behavior
My landlady, realizing I lived alone
in a new city, gave me dish towels
and showed me how to replace
my AC filters. I wondered without
wanting to how much of her kindness
corresponded with my good credit,
my new job. My dad once paid me
twenty dollars to plant perennials.
When I hadn’t broken soil by sundown,
he called me into the kitchen, ripped
the bills, threw them like confetti. It was
almost funny—I waited, half-wanting
something more solid to slice
the air. After seeing the first roach
in my apartment, I considered my instant
disgust, wondered when that reaction
had been instilled in me. The yawning
of a garage door used to make my heart
drop like a stunned bird, would send me
running to straighten shoes, to hide
evidence children might live there.
Years later, driving through the high desert
of Colorado, I stopped to order coffee.
The foam in my cup sank seconds after
the barista poured the milk. She nodded.
A storm’s coming. Some types of knowing
I can only describe by their weight,
by the way they expand like water
in the throat. Later, under a night so black
it looked flat, I watched lightning crack
the sky like a plate, like something about
to break. I could have been perfect—
nothing would have changed
how he saw me.