I’d seen him just two months before—
his brother’s service, condolences
over orange juice—but when I shook Dan’s hand
between aisles, my lips spoke Jack.
Or Jack spoke Jack through me, slipping back
by vowel rhyme, and scrambling to remain
among the glint and friction of the jumbo carts,
midday’s automatic produce mists. Cheeks drained,
then flushed, believing too much at once
to speak, I glanced towards Dan, his eyes
fixed below on the ceiling fans’ reflections—
each circulating blade leaking up
through the floor varnish. Returned to himself,
he laughed it off, clapping my back like a man,
like a Dan would, but more softly than that.
—Nate Klug
Nate Klug is the author of Anyone, a book of poems.
