Moving Sale

By ANDERS CARLSON-WEE

Duluth, we said when a browser asked.
Omaha, we said to another.

Omaha? they said. What’s in Omaha?
It was a good question, but in truth

we weren’t moving, just using
the drama to draw shoppers.

How much is this lamp? said a lady
in yoga pants. Everything’s labeled,

North told her. Another lie:
we left labels off the expensive shit,

buying us time to spot the weakness
in each person. Sold, I said

when she opened way too high.
Brainerd, Mankato, Des Moines:

whatever sounded likely in my mind.
Between customers North cracked

jokes, had me going, but my secret
was that if I’d been alone I would have died

of shame. I recounted the money.
Get it? he said. Get it? trying to break

my concentration. And the sale
went on like that: Where to?

What’s in St. Louis? What’s this cost?
Why would you want to live there?

Honolulu, I said, testing
somewhere better, farther away.

A year later when I actually moved
it was less than a mile.

 

Anders Carlson-Wee is the author of Disease of Kings, forthcoming from W.W. Norton in October 2023, and The Low Passions, a New York Public Library Book Group Selection. He is represented by Massie & McQuilkin Literary Agents. Visit AndersCarlsonWee.com

[Purchase Issue 25 here.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Moving Sale

Related Posts

Map

By MARIN SORESCU trans. DANIEL CARDEN NEMO
If I see the ocean / I think that’s where / my soul should be, / otherwise the sheet of its marble / would make no waves.

A sculpture bunny leaning against a book

Three Poems by Mary Angelino

MARY ANGELINO
The woman comes back each week / to look at me, to look / at regret—that motor stuck in the living / room wall, ropes tied / to each object, spooling everything in. She / comes back to watch / what leaving does. Today, her portrait / splinters—last month, it was only / askew

Aleksandar Hemon and Stefan Bindley-Taylor's headshot

January Poetry Feature #2: Words and Music(ians)

STEFAN BINDLEY-TAYLOR
I am sure I will never get a name for the thing, the memory of which still sits at a peculiar tilt in my chest, in a way that feels different than when I think of my birthday, or my father coming home. It is the feeling that reminds you that there is unconditional love in the world, and it is all yours if you want.