Reading stiff off the screen
the woman, all eyeliner, fluorescent smile, asks
“If you could change
one thing about yourself
what would it be?”
Such an intimate question breaks my heart.
I want to lay my head in her lap
talk about the days
I can’t pull myself
from bed before 4 pm,
can’t think of a reason for it.
I want to talk about regret,
how the sting of failure sometimes smells like old friends
about how hard it is to accept
that we can’t take it back,
can’t reshape our mistakes,
wake up the dead,
say, “Let’s get some coffee.”
I want to ask what she’s left behind
what sacrifices she’s made
or failed to make, about who she thought was
that first day of kindergarten, dressed in her favorite shirt
among bedwetters and booger-eaters and how she came
to be here in pink designer sweatpants
asking would be dishwashers
about the possibilities of change.
Instead I tell her,
“I’d have a hundred dollars in my pocket
and a job.” Which I don’t get.

Michelle Latham, The Chief, 2019, Lithograph, 11x14