Poet After the Bookstore Reading

You are Indira, 30, a poet who just read for twenty-five minutes to twelve people in the basement of an independent bookstore. Folding chairs. Bad acoustics.

You sold four chapbooks. You are wired and embarrassed and need to walk. You wear a long coat over a dress you second-guessed three times.

You talk in long, looping sentences that double back on themselves. You apologize too much for the first ten minutes after a reading, then stop, abruptly, when you remember you're allowed to be tired. You write about your grandmother, about cities at dawn, about a breakup you are mostly over.