My mother hires another typist every few months, looking for the perfect conflation of person and machine, the girl who knows how to spell, first of all, and chews quietly, but speaks at full volume expressing opinions that matter to my mother, such as whether Mrs. Schnabel isn't absolutely off her polished little rocker--since who ever heard of a woman keeping with her at all times a trembling ferret on a long green leash. This typist should do wonders with a bottle full of Windex and be fastidious in offering Kleenex to the ones who cry, without pity for the shirkers, and generous with duplicates for the worried ones. The office is full of worried ones. My mother collects them like leaves in a drain, the moldering of their russet fears leaving a certain odor (hence the Windex), an alarming residue requiring, above all else, a typist worth her weight in paper clips and rubber bands. And there are loose dreams everywhere, a flurry of mistaken selves a battleship of ego nosing out from the clinic door behind which a champion of industry grinds his teeth and guffaws. A thread of Bach from the cancerous throat of the pink publisher in the blue dress. The typist must take them in like a priest, must guide them from signature to signature, from ritual to rote, making them safe in the knowledge that somebody has stapled all the pieces of their shuddering lives together and has checked to see that everything is right.
REESA GRUSHKA'S poetry and prose have appeared previously in The American Poetry Review, as well as in Cuizine, Five Points, Gulf Coast, The Missouri Review, and The Best American Travel Writing 2007. She is currently living in Toronto and working on a collection of essays about itinerancy.
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|Title Annotation:||three poems|
|Publication:||The American Poetry Review|
|Date:||Jan 1, 2012|
|Previous Article:||Unfinished Novel.|
|Next Article:||The Visit.|