Something Else Entirely | Eve Kenneally

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Eve Kenneally (from Boston by way of DC) is a freelance writer and recent alumna of the MFA program at the University of Montana. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Yemassee, Whiskey Island, Bop Dead City, decomP, Stirring, Crab Creek Review, Blue Monday Review, and elsewhere.




Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before

Last night I dreamed the perfect description
of German–rain on metal, a chapped hand
half-closed. I can’t call anyone
back. I already know what they’ll say.
Something about repetition, something
about adjustment, about waiting for
the leather to dry before you bring the
boots in. About believing as few things as
possible. Cleveland without consequence. It’s
February and the sky is an upturned
bowl. Everything we say gets caught – misted
over & swallowed. It’s raining today, steel
sheet, damp suede. On the streets
no one looks anywhere but
their feet. I think I’ve been wrong
about everything. I keep meaning to make
a bigger statement. Before my friend’s sister
died she cut her braids off and tried
to feed them to her cat. Is this the story
you meant to tell? The man on the
corner, small & hooded in a red rain
jacket, will sell me earrings for $4. I will
never wear them. I think there’s something I’m
forgetting to tell you, like you are lovely & useless or
I lost your spare key. I’m not good at small
talk. I keep meaning to stop
repeating myself. We’ll just drink. I am self-
conscious and you are late and trying,
again. I forget how to speak about
anything. We’ll just drink. There’s the plastic bottle. There’s
the dirty ice & the chair and the space beside it.
I am something else entirely. I keep meaning to
sleep, to melt this web of crossing
thoughts. Could you remind me
the benefits of leaving the house, of not chain-
smoking or tonguing stomach acid? Could you just
step over me, when you go outside to test
the air? Soon weak sun will splinter
the clouds, or maybe I’m seeing
things again. You have to drive. Black
ice, seatbelts. 3 crushed Styrofoam
cups. Pedestrians watching. Take
a left. These ones stop nightmares about
SIDS museums & skull-crushed towns. These ones
will make me sleep for 15 hours without pause, dry
lips, jelly thighs. These ones will
stop me from crying at the TV or at red
meat. You’re not supposed to cast
spells during the day. Remember that dream
where I stuffed your throat with olives? You said
it was off-putting. I’m tired of whiskey-
papering my throat. A girl outside the bar stumbles
by a doll. She starts to whisper to it, realizes
its babyface is made of plastic. Everything
around me dusts itself. We both
know how this ends. I’m naming every
thing around me after myself & then I’ll lose it. All.