Hello Reckoning
Jeremy Schmall
With
the dim sky out of sight I can almost—finally—be just a
dude under tree branches. But I can't stop. Twigs cracking underfoot,
backpack filled with clean water and soda crackers. I want to thank
someone. Bulging pulse up my neck and I keep the rifle in both hands.
To be just outside the circumference of fear, that loosening. I
remember sitting down to eat a peanut butter sandwich years earlier,
sunlight on my shoes. Water sloshes the plastic. The map is useless to
me. I know I'm headed basically north, sour vomit taste in my mouth. So
what good is a man's handshake and signature? What's the point of all
these formalities? You give someone a ticket to punch so you can ride
the goddamn train. It makes sense. But then what? The next thing you
know the doctor scalpels a crunchy mole off your neck, the daughters
never visit. It's tricky. It's nothing. It's trivia, but it's not.
I stop at the edge of a clearing and look through my riflescope for any
movement. It's like, the man who turns animals into meat goes home and
eats meat. The president, even when alone, is working to impress
someone. Look at a man's face and think what the fuck do you know?
Jeremy
Schmall is the founder and co-editor of the Agriculture Reader, and the
author of the forthcoming book of poems, "Jeremy Schmall & the Cult
of Comfort" (X-ing). His work has been published in PEN America, Laurel
Review, Washington Square, and Forklift Ohio. He lives in New York City.
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