INTERMINABLE REALITY SHOW

And an Inventory of What I Couldn't Let Go

It feels like we’re in limbo, holding our collective breath as we suffer a senile grandpa’s interminable reality show.

“The only way out is through,” which I often thought while pregnant and throughout a protracted labour. I’ve survived worse. Still, I’m fortunate to live in the west and especially Canada. The pain and anguish of the displaced, civilians trapped in war zones prowl our psyches.

As usual poetry provides an escape, but more than that, an anchor through the storm. I find myself retreating to the past, wallowing in nostalgia, probing regret. Hence this bent for inventory.

I can’t let go. I hold onto democracy, the rule of law, integrity.

Hold fast to reason or whatever keeps you afloat. Decency will prevail.

WHAT I COULDN’T LET GO

Exquisite string of turquoise stones.

Tiny pottery dish hand-painted
with a blue dragonfly.

Sleek black and glass blender,
a welcome surprise.
High protein shakes sustain
my bone density.

Square white Japanese plates,
embossed with plum blossoms.

Poetry volumes.
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam inscribed,
“So delightful to lift so many cups w/you.
The bird is on the wing.”

Two black vases; one shaped
like a musical note,
the other,
an oval mid-century design.

A few precious records
wrestled from
a Safeway parking lot fight,
two of us bent over
a stack in the Kia’s trunk.
Another argument he won.
I’d wanted a Honda.

Flipper’s sunny yellow Generic Album.
Lydia Lunch—In Limbo.
Dead Kennedys—
Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables.
bill bisset—Awake in the Red Desert.

Julia Child’s The French Chef.
The one cookbook
I persuaded him was mine.

Our son.

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Illustration by Deep on Unsplash