Cleaning, and: Pride, and: The Mattress

Cleaning

Sorting through the chest's junk, I happenedon this picture of him, a stranger I lived withmonth-to-month while I looked for something

cheaper. He lost his arm at seven whenhis brother made him climb a telephone poleand touch the live wire. The fall should've

killed me, he said, but I landed in a garden bedour neighbor had recently turned. I had to relearnhow to write, how to draw, how to throw a ball.

Late at night we'd talk about our brothers,how hard it was to forgive. He loved braggingabout the amount he could handle: make a call,

pound a burger, and drive stick shift all at once.When we juggled clubs he'd tease me for using twohands but we both knew we needed three

to make the pattern work. I don't know wherehe is now, or what he does, or if he's in touchwith his brother. In the photograph he's jammed

himself into the small gap between the mirrorand the clawfoot tub. Eyes shut, smirking, he liftshis palm into the air which perfectly doubles

its reflection so he looks like a priest offeringbenediction. I don't remember taking it,but someone did, and I was the only one there.

Pride

After pulling a score from the dumpsterbehind Krogers I stroll throughsliding doors with egg-caked hands.The greeter greets me as I pass. I scanthe aisles like a surgeon studying the mintversions of organs she cuts outof men. The dented cans of black beans,undented, would have cost meten bucks. The unexpired cartons of cream:another twenty. I smile at the math.For the dark roast alone I'd have forked overforty-seven. For eight uncracked eggsout of a dozen: about a buck-eleven.Might as well be money I found.Might as well be money I made.By the time I get to the frozen foodsI'm up two hundred. Markdown meatsand I'm up three. In the bathroomI lock the door behind me and twiston the tap. As the yellow crust peelsoff my hands the mirror clouds overwith steam. I finger the totalwhere my face used to be.

The Mattress

No car to drive to the dump and too embarrassedto borrow one, you scrape the black moldoff the underside as best you can, muscle itonto your shoulder. Spores multiplied to the sizeof you, the rough shape, born night after nightby the heat of your sleep. So late you lurchdown Main Street without notice. Turningat Taylor you pause between streetlights, creasethe mattress in half and squat on the foldso you won't have to face it. You're almostto the bridge when the cop's spotlight throwsthe awful bulk of your shadow on concrete.Where you going with that thing?You make up a story. Is it yours? You admit it is.Not your best look, Junior. Yes, you play along,I should change. The cruiser turns down Eighthand a moment later a coal train rattles underthe bridge on its way out of the country. You bracethe mattress on the guardrail and pivotthe weight, torqueing it down through the darkwhere it lands on the black coal and pullsnorth like shame itself on a conveyer belt,the mold gazing up at you like the aborted faceof what, all by yourself, you have made.