Show me where to sign but leave me something. The pedestal missing a leg, the cardboard cut-out of me you put in the window of your store, I know I’m not who I was but still, a wooden token from the days before we went digital, a piece of thread leading me out of this maze, a bullheaded argument, a button torn off the uniform of our mutual enemy, a handful of troops stationed beyond reception, a sprinkling of static from when everyone disappeared leaving nowhere to go, a fraction of who I wanted to be, 9/16 or 15/32, I don’t need conversion, turns out that was a phone booth the confessor was sitting in, or let me take the official documentation of who I would’ve been, one of my signature moves, a sampled gesture, how about that dog-eared transcript, or a drop of blood quieted by the librarian, or a new word for scar, or a glimpse from afar, maybe two hours every other, the doctored test results, could I have those, or a micrometer, a microbe, a toy microphone, something, anything, I don’t care how small. Just don’t tell me I’ve signed the wrong page. That’s how my name looks now that I’ve run out of ink.


Peter Anderson is a poet, playwright and performer living in Vancouver, Canada. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Unbroken Journal, Sublunary Review, and Better Than Starbucks.

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