Kafkaesque


When I read “The Metamorphosis”
I was living in a cockroach-infested hotel
in the middle of downtown Seattle.
I lay on the lumpy iron bed
and tried to imagine what it would be like
to wake up with antennae and six feet
that waved in all directions,
always trying to pick up on 
signals of imminent destruction
before the boot came down.
I wrote a letter to my boyfriend in Chicago
on ancient hotel stationary.  
The masthead featured a classic backdrop
of the building's silhouette-
a hold-out from more sophisticated days
when sightseers took in the World's Fair
and then retired to their rooms 
for a quick shower, a change of clothing,
and an elegant dinner with cocktails.
I drew a line of cartoon cockroaches
across the roof of the hotel,
all of them smiling hugely
while they waved their legs in the air, 
glad to be in Seattle at last.
Then I placed a stamp on the envelope
and went downstairs into the traffic
to search for a mailbox. 
I was twenty-five years old, already a pro,
and I looked both ways as I crossed the street.
I made certain no cars would hit me,
I didn't want that sort of transformation.
The mailbox received my letter
without question, as it did every day
and I returned to my hotel room
with its rolled-up bed-covers
and its want-ad promises of change.
The afternoon lay ahead
like a long graveyard, its trees waving
in the distance, like insect antennae.
Perhaps it would all look different
after a nap, so I lay down gently,
dreamed of insects marching in a row,
and awakened an hour later to my human form.



​

Seattle, 1993


Went on a date
with a fellow I met
on the Green Tortoise.
We lay side by side 
on sand encrusted mattresses
that bounced and swayed
like the deck of a ship
as the bus lurched through
the mountains of Oregon.
I had left my husband
a few months beforehand
and I longed for the sensation
of someone else's mouth and hands
to melt away my failure;
I squirmed
uncomfortably but happily
beside my new friend
as he spoke to me
of Castaneda.

When we arrived in Seattle
we exchanged phone numbers
and agreed to meet 
the following week.
I spent the evening beforehand
braiding my hair
and looking for a new pair of shoes,
settling at last 
upon plastic Doc Marten knock-offs
because real ones were too expensive.
I bought a dress
of a subtle blue color
with wavy black lines
that reminded me of a swimming pool
in the late afternoon sun.

He was an hour late
for our special meeting
and he apologized, 
bought me a drink
at Queen City Grill
with a credit card, bragging
that he had never in his life
bounced a check.
I said I wished
I could say the same.
Outside the bar, 
I lost my balance
for a brief moment, stumbled
and ripped the hem of my dress
on a car bumper.
He looked concerned, and said,
“I'm sorry.
That dress was just too nice,”
but I laughed and told him
that it didn't bother me at all.