Year One, First Friday of March
Dear Hiring Committee:
I want to say I’m qualified for this job, that I have been the hardest
worker, the kindest colleague, the most promising student. I want to say
hire me—you won’t regret it! The attached resumé, however, may indicate that instead of saying
sorry, I just say, pass the salt, that I tend to bury others’ wounds in the sand
under me like the ostrich I am, stuffed in human clothes.
I bring baked goods to work potlucks, soft, expired Wal-Mart cookies
intended for the dentist as much as for the boss. My friends make
ravioli from scratch, shrimp linguini, chocolate torte, and I have no qualms
devouring them. I spill coffee over keyboards, hang up the phone before
pressing transfer, concede to my hangover with my face slumped
over the warm, humming computer monitor.
Sure, I can get the job done: I always found the ghost in the graveyard before my
friends, our faces sticky with the sweat unique to children. I always knew
when to push too far, when to say the right wrong thing to be taken out
and taken home. My references will, I’m sure, reference me, though how
well, I could not say. Do employers keep track of late punch-cards, missed
meetings, typo-ridden company memos?
Take me out to lunch. Let me show you how well I can behave with some-
thing between my teeth. I’ll let you shove my hand aside when I pretend to reach
for the check. I need first, last, and deposit. I can start right now.
It’s a ‘Sorry We Missed You’ Kind of Day
And I woke up to a leak in my house, drops of water
playing leapfrog over my bedhead.
And I stubbed my toe in the shower, dropping
father’s favorite swear down the drain.
And I spilled the coffee after it dripped
perfectly into my blue ceramic mug.
And I went to the local Starbucks, stood under the awning
reading signs signaling star-crossed lovers.
And I forgot to click send on a text dropped
to my boss explaining why I’m late again.
And I lost my shoes in the drivel-
swollen parking lot.
And my colleagues’ voices drowned
out my new ideas, green and crisp as a leaf tendril.
And Karen devoured my expensive veggie dip
straight from the paper bag bearing my name.
And the phone kept drying
out my mouth with hellos and bellows.
Where did it come from, this cloud?
Where did I leave my raincoat?
And I go home, decide today has been enough.
And Murphy’s law decides today has been enough.
Remi Recchia is a trans poet and essayist from Kalamazoo, Michigan. He is a Ph.D. candidate in English-Creative Writing at Oklahoma State University. He currently serves as an associate editor for the Cimarron Review and Reviews Editor for Gasher. A four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Remi’s work has appeared or will soon appear in Best New Poets 2021, Columbia Online Journal, Harpur Palate, and Juked, among others. He holds an MFA in poetry from Bowling Green State University. Remi is the author of Quicksand/Stargazing (Cooper Dillon Books, 2021).