Do the math: a set of fake mustaches
and one friend dead of heart failure. One first love,
one first dog. If you hit a dog he’ll lick your hand

in the morning. If you hit a man you love,
he’ll cower like a dog. When you leave,
take the dog. Two years in a row, someone

dies while you are on a plane. Take both
calls at the luggage carousel, pluck the wrong
black suitcase when your father cries. Two

states away, your mother is a new divorcee. One
night, three different men want your number—
some sort of record, still unbroken. Three years

in Minnesota under a snowglobe sky. Three weeks
and you know it will never be home: there’s
four Indian restaurants in town and not one

decent goddamn chana masala. Every cardamom
pod busted, the seeds long gone. Instead, keep five
tiny jars—ginger, chili, cumin, coriander, curry—

and eat the world in your yellow linoleum kitchen.
After that, there’s five days in the workweek, room
for at five bullets in a revolver. The sixth must be

for good luck. Or maybe you miscount. In Florida,
see seven alligators along the highway. In Wisconsin,
seven highway alligators. That’s geography.

And you can’t forget the eight weddings,
four of which end in divorce. Each time,
return the shoes the next day for a full refund.

Nine years now you’ve kept cigarettes on ice
just in case. Nine years now you’ve dated men
with the same name for the same reason.

Count down your last ten years, one finger
for each. Then look at your hands: two clenched fists,
a blue-bruise heart. But now you get to start over. One—