Once, I recognized myself
in a glass door, walking out
as I walked in. They say we share
sixty percent of our genes with
bananas, which explains
the bruised hump of my body
sitting in this chair day in, day
out. Ninety percent similar
to the rat in a water
maze, fur slicked to its forehead,
paddling toward despair. Scientists
measure how long it takes the rat
to discover there isn’t any way
to escape. Did you know
an infant rat will giggle if you
tickle its tummy? We truly are
the cruelest species. I, for one,
am getting on a plane before
we have destroyed our planet
so much the turbulence makes it
impossible to travel. I want to see
Vegas where a thousand
water fountains erupt with
colored lights mathematically
choreographed to music. I’ve
already bought tickets, even though
last week there was another
flood in the streets, and I’ve seen
the video of a man riding
the current, clinging to a pool
floatie in the shape of a turtle.
He gives the camera a thumbs up
before turning to look toward
a bend in the road. People
are laughing. In another
video, inside the casino,
blackjack tables are lily pads.
Perhaps my doppelgänger
is there, her curls sopped
heavy at her shoulders, huddling
by the stairs. This wasn’t the
payoff anyone was expecting.
If there is a ledge hidden just under
the surface for the rat to stand on
so she doesn’t drown, and where
she gets her sweet puff of cereal
as reward, the water is
too cloudy to see it.
This poem first appeared in Subnivean (2023).
—
Cynthia Marie Hoffman is the author of four collections of poetry: Exploding Head, Call Me When You Want to Talk about the Tombstones, Paper Doll Fetus, and Sightseer, all from Persea Books. Essays in TIME, The Sun, Lit Hub, and elsewhere. Poems in Electric Literature, The Believer, The Los Angeles Review, and elsewhere. Cynthia lives in Madison, WI. www.cynthiamariehoffman.com.
