Does my father have friends?
Once, he spoke of a college friend
now lost to another city, to whom
his record collection was promised in death.
How I wanted his records.
Does my father know how I in those small years
wanted to be his friend?
Did he carry it with him,
my wide-eyed admiration,
when he journeyed out to Home Depot
selling floors to put a roof over us?
Did he have friends there?
Did his coworkers – most half his age –
extend their hands in comradery to him?
Sometimes he showed me his record collection.
Perhaps he was just listening and I, just there.
To me, it seemed an occasion:
reaching back with Dark Side, Tommy, Sgt. Pepper.
Voices sounding from somewhere far beyond
yet not too grand to fill the space between us
in a cigarette smoked room.
When I listen to the same albums now
I tear through the lyrics for hidden lessons,
proverbs I pretend he meant to lend me.
How I wanted his records
but I have never asked for them
and he has never offered.
Both of us are too embarrassed
and the records, apathetic and warping.
I navigate new friendships now,
out in the world but mostly alone.
Once, days before I was to move out,
he put on She’s Leaving Home, Lonely Hearts again.
What did we do that was wrong?
It goes: We didn’t know it was wrong.
The girl in the song leaves home anyway.
Of course I know he didn’t know.
I do not hold it against him.
Category: Uncategorized
Snail
Nearly still, small yet long, always wet,
Stuck fast to glass, turning slowly, slowly
toward the rotting pear.
Tiny eyes, swaying on antennae:
delicate black beads,
slumping down to scan the fruit.
Slick body convulsing in gentle waves,
each small movement coaxing
an unremarkable glide
a slow, controlled slide.
At the bottom of the jar,
the snail feasts.
Unclaimed Evenings
I want to dissolve into our bed and into you
blend into the fibres, into your pores,
particles flush with particles in the dark.
No more of this —
operating a metal machine to
move my body where it doesn’t want to be, to
carve a life out of busywork.
The planet is dying, and the lifetime
you and I roughly share isn’t guaranteed
to say nothing of our smallness
within our planet’s smallness
within our solar system’s smallness.
What I mean is,
I no longer have the capacity to think about my credit score.
The universe experiencing itself experiences
lunch n learns, the DMV, conferences, car trouble.
And how quickly I forget, how chronically,
that I am here and your are here in bed
and no one attempts to steal our labour away
all night.
I am here, and you are here.
What fragile, abused creatures we all are.
I am here, and you are here.
If the sun comes up tomorrow, I will try
to remember that.
Snabitat
Water droplets on plastic
A carrot
A piece of cuttlebone
The snail I found in an apple crate
Seems to be doing alright
In the habitat I set up for him.
It has been nice to have something to take care of
While I wait for my third mental health assessment
And try to decide what to tell them.
Semi-employed at a fruit stand
Previously over-employed at two service jobs
My slow days come at a cost;
You can only claim so much welfare.
The snail gets what she needs
Because I like to watch her glide around.
If only I could glide similarly
And hang upside down from a plastic lid.
Maybe someone would give me carrots and fruits
And spritz me with water twice a day.
career choice
i would like to learn to roller skate
and embroider funny quotes on circles of fabric
and hold the person i like holding.
i would like to sink into the art of friends and strangers
warmed in the thick of their thoughts.
i would like to make one of those big meals for dinner
you have to start in the morning
and i would like to feel like a day spent doing nothing
is special, still. precious, still.
we pause and we pause and we pause.
i feel it in our conversations
i see it on vacant evening streets, empty morning buses.
the common theme of this collective breath — in —
shouldn’t be fear. out —
it shouldn’t.
something stirs
Something stirs.
The bars are closed.
The movie theatres paused,
gone dark on the last frame of the last film shown.
Some story had to come last —
but something stirs.
The diners empty,
the street noise becomes sparse.
We walk six feet apart and veer farther still from others.
Some story had to come last —
and it is this one.
The gatherings disbanded.
Small moments of connection thrive
under sickness’s terms.
Yes, I suppose some story had to come last
but something stirs.
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