An Exercise in Not Caring
Daphne Guzmán
Photo by Deborah Guzmán

A black Mustang in a semicircle driveway screams, "Look at me! Wonder where I've been!"  A fantasy of keys flashing against skin: would they know it's me?  Slashed tires, dirt on panel, send me a sign that you're miserable.

A folded paper on my desk radiates light that seems to whisper rejection.  I scoop the words into my mouth.  Enzymes from my liver break down meaning. Later, I'll see that light coming off my sweat.

A breaking memory will be saved in bubble wrap.  I'll place it in the den. Although I'll pass it every day, I will not see it.