I think about it often —
what would happen.
How it might work.
I dream up scenarios,
and when I am alone at work,
alone in my office.
When I am on the bus.
When I am buying baguettes and lox.
When I open the jar of capers.
I imagine how it will work.
I wonder where I will be.
Occasionally,
I hope that when I walk down the street,
it will happen in a hail of poppies,
blossoming over the white of my shirt,
and I will go down in slow motion,
onto my knees,
and then collapsing onto my side,
seizing,
blood running from my lips,
my hands grasping
for something I cannot reach.
I imagine it,
over and over and over again.
That’s what I’m thinking about,
when I tell you ‘Nothing’
when you ask why I’m smiling.
