Forty Weeks Would Have Been

I came for milk.

I turned left by accident

into the cards.

The rack was still spinning

from someone who'd just been there—

pastel envelopes fanned open,

yellow, mint, a pink

so specific I had to look away

and then look back.

I put my hand on the metal edge

to stop it.

It slowed. Kept going.

A woman asked me something.

I heard the shape of her voice.

No, I said. I'm fine.

My hand still on the shelf.

Thursday was four days after

what would have been the last week—

the week with a number,

the week they hand you the number

and say almost,

almost,

almost there.

I don't know why I need you

to know about the card rack.

I just need you to understand

that specific pink.

What it cost me

to look at it.

That I looked.