Amanda Kallis

Follow a car at random. Preferably
a four-door sedan. Preferably on the
highway. Leave it at a cul-de-sac.

Narrate closed doors. Eat somebody
else’s meal.

Flirt with voices. Bring one with you:
a souvenir. Lose it at karaoke.

Find a house that might have been
your childhood home. Give a tour.

Save a jpeg over and over. Let the
colors bleed and the lines squirm.
Continue until the image is erased.

Sell me a tourist’s understanding.
Convince me I’m loved.

Make me solid. Articulate. If you
don’t, I’ll stay just a voice in your
head, in the forward motion of a car
in a lane in a parallel. Or I’ll be
tossed, crumpled, opening to noon
heat on the highway, kicked to the
dead space.

I suspect my name was stolen. Was it
you? On your clothes is an eager
cherry blossom smell.