Popular Longing. Natalie Shapero

Popular Longing - Natalie Shapero


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hip to have a print of it,

      and whenever I see one hung for decoration,

      I’m almost certain that this is what Caillebotte

      had in mind when he broke out the oils

      in 1884: some twenty-first-century bitch in Boston

      catching a glimpse of a framed reproduction,

      recollecting a study about how washing oneself may induce

      a sense of culpability. What I remember

      is he insisted I clean before leaving. That, and he was

      trying to be dreamlike. He took my jaw in his hand

      and said IN THE NEXT LIFE, WE’LL REALLY BE TOGETHER,

      and the clamp in his voice made me almost

      certain he knew something I did not. Now I eat right,

      train hard, get my shots. This life—I’m angling

      to remain in this life as long as I can, being almost

      certain, as I am, what’s after—

      I do not like money, neither for itselfnor for what it can buy, as I wantnothing we know about.

      René Magritte

       My Hair Is My Thing

      The symphony’s out of funding again, and no

      wonder: all those violins, the twisted strands

      and sponges—who could not think

      of torture? Last week I read a novel about a man

      so awful that when he died I wept

      because it was fiction. I wanted it to be real

      so I could watch him really die.

      I wanted you to die also, and to be feted

      with a lengthy, organza-filled funeral,

      so that I could make a big show

      of blowing it off. I decided to go out

      and get a tattoo of your funeral with me not there,

      but apparently it’s illegal here to tattoo

      a person who’s crying. The trend now

      is to be interred with beloved possessions:

      pearl-trimmed gun, gold watch,

      whatever you’ve got. Some people recoil

      at the waste of it, but not me. These contused little

      objects of wealth—they’re disgusting. I just

      pray we have earth and shovels enough. I pray

      we have bodies enough to bury them all.

       The Suggested Face for Sorry

      You and me—we are the opposite

      of twins in an old story.

      When I am in pain, you don’t feel it.

      If I up and retch, you never guess.

      The city laid out poison

      along the tunnels and tracks, meant

      for rats, and one day my dog ate some.

      She was fine. I’ve never been

      so jealous in my life. I want to do

      the things we do to die,

      and then just take off sprinting

      in the steep ravine. In my dream,

      I walk my dog and you cross

      our path and she torques at you

      and rears and snaps. She senses

      you are wholly bad. They say animals

      can tell, like with earthquakes.

      You’re supposed to scan the classifieds,

      searching for a sudden spike

      in the number of missing pets. That’s

      how you know to prepare. Maneuver

      away from shelving. Crawl

      to the nearest doorframe. Get out

      of California. What are you waiting for.

       Lying Is Getting

      to me. The high-ups instructed me not to tell their dad

      about the particulates—the last

      time he caught them polluting, he made them sit

      themselves down right there and eat a whole smokestack.

      I keep nodding when the city insists I stick

      with the story of accidents—she was cleaning

      her gun, he was cleaning the recessed

      sign on the front of the passenger train, they were holding

      hands and had a whole plan to clean

      the concrete twenty-two stories below the ledge

      of the mixed-use downtown

      tower. To really make it shine. The party line

      is getting me good. I keep turning

      my face to the flashbulb in an effort to seem like someone

      with no secrets, and now when I see other people

      framed and beaming, I want to know what they’re keeping

      in. All those holiday moments, tacked

      to the fridge or strung up with wire and eyelets. All that sin—

       Five by Seven

      Really, when people have photographs of themselves

      displayed on their walls, I just assume

      they have died and it is their ghosts

      who’ve invited me over, their ghosts with whom

      I’m sharing a meal, making small

      talk about all the bodies and trash on Mount Everest.

      Oh lacquered ghosts, so high on your own

      finished triptych of fetes

      and feats and the corresponding assurance

      you go unforgotten—let’s

      go out. From the recent restaurant

      boom, infer a citywide uptick in rage-ravaged homes.

      People want new spots to fight, to squall

      and snipe, lose their appetites, be brought

      the chalkboard special, not touch it,

      see it whisked to the kitchen and scraped

      out back for a dog to eat, but that’s cool—dogs

      have to eat, too—

       California

      We often ate late by flameless

      candles and took turns choosing

      how best to be disposed of.

      I want to be buried. I want everyone

      to be buried. I realize there’s scarcely

      a


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