Before You Became Yourself

The napkin's in the cupholder, the date's gone dark,

the ink just smudged where I must have held it,

but the items are clear: cottage cheese, cilantro, oil—

expensive olive oil, the kind I never buy.

The handwriting's mine. The letters slant the way

my letters slant when I'm rushing or sure.

But I don't remember standing in a store.

I don't remember wanting these things.

Someone I was planned a meal, made a list on a napkin,

had money and purpose and a reason to write.

Someone I was knew what she needed.

I study this paper like evidence from a crime

I can't remember committing.

The cilantro would have wilted by now.

The cottage cheese would have curdled or been eaten.

The expensive oil would be somewhere in a cabinet,

if I'd actually bought it.

But this napkin is the only proof

that I was hungry for something specific once,

and I don't even know what it was anymore.

I don't know who was hungry.

I just know it wasn't me.