Our Numbered Days
书名：Our Numbered Days
作者：Neil Hilborn
[1]
How miraculous that we all
keep our shit together. How miraculous
that no one has a premonition of flames
and tries to open the cabin door. The airline
pilot next to me keeps his eyes closed
during takeoff and landing. He does not
drink anything. I have an orange juice
with no ice. I want to watch the horizon
as it gets farther away. This man
might just be smarter than me, but he is also
flying coach and reading the sports section
while I do crosswords, so he is probably
still smarter than me. Pretension
can look like intelligence if you squint
hard enough or wear glasses. There are,
for some reason, always Buddhist monks
in the Philadelphia airport. Buddhist monks
rewrapping their robes. This is my sixth time
in this airport. My sixth time because of two
different women. I have paid probably
a couple thousand dollars for the privilege.
Five cheesesteaks. Surprisingly good caramel
popcorn. Maybe thirty hours, five just trying
to find outlets. How miraculous that I can go
basically anywhere. How miraculous, the doors,
the wings, the recycled air. How miraculous,
flight is just a fall that never finds the ground.
[2]
No one knows
how he gets them, because rivers can’t walk
to the store or be guidance counselors,
duh. If snow can drift, so can leaves
and dust and responsibilities. You can have
a light dusting of feathers. Snow is a sentient being
that hates when people drive in straight lines. Snow is
migratory. Snow is a dog that wants
all the sidewalks to be covered
in salt. Snow therefore is a happy dog.
Imagine if fire extinguishers were full
of snow. Imagine the fun we could have.
[3]
to hide the knives because you will carve
her name into all of the food in your fridge.
Stop showering. Warmth will remind you
of her. Masturbate in public. Hope someone
catches you. You need to feel vulnerable
in front of anyone else. Try to burn her
clothes. Try to fall in love with strangers.
Try to fall asleep without her: open the windows:
she would have wanted them closed;
turn off the radio: she can’t sleep without
noise—you can’t sleep without noise,
but noise will sound like her whispering
[4]
I am not convinced those are onions.
Onions do not make you cry
like an opera singer. I have to assume,
therefore, that she is an opera singer and that
therefore the plenty around her is about to
disappear; you cannot be an artist
and also know plenty. The jars, the somehow
very ripe fruit, the gold earrings, gone.
All that’s left is the knife and the onion.
The knife, barely indistinguishable from the wall,
barely for now. The way the blade stays
out of focus until it’s called. The way
your life is sharper once it’s gone.
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