The Things We Carry

The things we carry

shoved hastily into drawers that stick

hidden in the back of the closet

in the basement 

under the stairs

in the pockets of pants

we refuse to wear


If we can’t see them,

maybe they’ll disappear?


They lie there nudging us

a whiff of mildew

something unattended

tossing our night dreams

like sand in our socks


I was reminded of my mother today

my inner voice, her assessing tone

I am a woman grown

and yet…


The things we carry

those we go digging for,

those that offer themselves unannounced


The way a kingfisher spins me

into childhood wonder,

the shape of a cloud recalling picnics

scratchy red wool blanket 

covering still wet grass

the family, side by each

gazing up, open palms sun warmed



That first dandelion

sharp tang of milky sap

peeled stem curling

ringlets around our fingers

daisy chains gracing our crowns


I hold all memories

soft as cattail flower heads

and sharp as gravel

We can’t choose what we carry


We can choose to haul out

those things we’d rather not

air them 

to the wide sky

watch them sail like kites

refold them again when they return

as they must


They too have clothed us

though the fit restrictive, uncomfortable

the colours garish, embarrassing


The things we carry

transform

with how they are held

Stillness


Woman on the meridian, panhandling, sneakers collapsed, face shuttered.

November chilled cement

Outside the liquor store, man with his head down. Is he weeping?

His body a curled comma, head covered by an ugly toque

Unlikely pom pom dandling.

A cuff of dirty skin where bony knees jut through filthy fabric

I walk by, chance a look back. He doesn’t unfold.

Change jangles in my pocket unannounced 

Head home 

Under ominous skies


Outside a howling rattles the windows, parties with the wind chimes, slinks down the chimney with a whistle howl.

Glass and curtain muffled

The dog snores

The furnace hums

I am curled like a half question mark

A pause of stillness


An intersection of inadequate awareness

Gaze returning to the unsheltered

Dark side of the glass

Imagining the weary

Waiting 

Stillness

Seldom Stuck

I am seldom stuck,

though the words that pour forth

through pen and unleashed mind babble,

race like ponies in the field

tossing frantic manes and tails

the whites of their eyes rolling,

their nostrils dilated

like the peach clamshells I gather in summer


I want to hold my hands up and out,

hush now, it's okay

the lullaby unwinding

To place my hand upon the sweat soaked neck,
gentle, gentle,

stroke the kitten soft muzzle


I do not want to saddle words,

to rein them in,

a sharp bit between the teeth

I want to settle,

let the head dip,

munch the sweet damp grass,

honey scented summer

warm upon my shoulders


A pause then,

a breath drawn from the belly,

deep then deeper still

filling like a swollen creek

rich and cool, and then

the release


a ribbon unfurled

a kite unbound,

a cresting wave

the pen, a shadow dancer


unstuck

yet...inadequate

I wonder about babes before

language creates the topography

the map of their knowing

so finely attuned to senses

the brush of a hand upon the cheek,

the hum of a voice against the belly

the language of life

buzzing through

the unquestioning

soles of their tender toes


they are

seldom stuck














Pair

The evening before us,

and uncoupled we drift

into otherness,

strangers on our shadowed shores


The afternoon, untethered

I ride to a small cafe

am seated at the counter

to observe unobserved


Couples wander by

the percussions of their footfalls

perfectly paired alignment


There is beauty in symmetry,

the blades of shoulders

learning together

paired rib cages sheltering

paired lungs


I watch two crows knocking beaks

and then alighting

wingtip to wingtip,

swooping alignment


they carve the skyline

with the knife edges

of their blue black wings


Grateful for the ebb and flow

the tides we share,

grateful for the spaces

between our union


Knowing and mystery

informing our love.

Walter & Grace part 2

Walter’s heightened agitation at the thought of the impending picnic seemed completely out of proportion, but it was also unfathomably unshakable. He went to bed even earlier, watching the red illuminated numbers of the clock scroll so slowly they seemed to blur, defying the laws of physics. In the early hours , dull eyed and unsettled he hauled himself out of bed, facing the blue grey dawn edgily. He took his dog for uncharacteristically long walks through the bush. She was nine now and though at first she’d been eagerly amazed, by Wednesday she was clearly objecting, lagging behind, tail drooping disconsolately. When Walter snarled at her, she threw him such a wounded look that he was immediately furious with himself.

Once daily work obligations were complete, Walter tried to lose himself in books, a strategy that had never failed to distract and comfort him. But he lost his reading glasses every time he set them down, stalking in and out of each room, tossing aside books, pillows, and coffee cups. Curses he’d never before uttered spit from his mouth like the hulls of sunflower seeds from a seasoned long haul trucker.

He found himself trying to imagine what the hell he’d bring to to the potluck. Walter, never much of a cook, was stymied. When he perused the local grocery store to see if they had anything ready made that he could pass off as home cooked, it was slim pickings indeed. Frozen mini quiches and veggie plates with limp looking celery, still green tomatoes, browning cauliflower and a dip that had a suspiciously vague ingredient list. He berated himself for spending any time thinking about it at all, and could not seem to stem the flood of his wildly circular thoughts.

He tried calling Sarah, just in case Margaret had spun some story that he could unravel, could set right. Three times the phone went to message and finally, on Thursday Derek answered. Usually Walter would hang up at this juncture but he was that concerned.

“Derek, I’m trying to get ahold of Sarah, is she there”? It was the most words he’d every exchanged with Derek. It left his stomach knotted and his throat constricted.

“She’s not here”, came the grunted response. Walter felt the flush of heat roll through his body.

“Well where is she?”

“She’s gone. I expect she’ll be home sooner than later”.

“Sooner than later, what the hell kind of answer is that”? The dial tone buzzed, Walter’s question dangling like a pulled plug. By Saturday, Walter had decided to just bag up some offerings from the garden, baby carrots, new peas and strawberries that were just ripe enough to pass. It would have to do. He’d slide the bag unobtrusively onto one of the tables and hope one of the women would deal with it appropriately, place it on a fancy plate with a nasturtium for garnish. He imagined he’d stay just long enough to run interference with Sarah, let her know she didn’t need to be there, and neither did he. Maybe they’d both end up at his place, just the two of them sitting on the swing chair on the front porch, sipping cold beer and laughing about the way they’d avoided the barely concealed rivalry, the sly measuring glances to see who had brought what, whose children were ill mannered, whose dress was a little too short for decorum. The physicality of church seemed to restrict that kind of nonsense, but out in the open air, who knew how unravelled things might become.

Walter & Grace

If they thought about him at all, most folks considered Walter a taciturn man. Hard to tell what he was thinking. His mouth rarely shifted from a thin horizontal line. Not grim, but not familiar with the curve of a smile. For a good long while, Walter had ignored his emotions. Like laundry forgotten on the line, they’d become washed out, sun-bleached, colours unrecognizable. He wasn’t unhappy or happy. He just was. He had enough awareness to realize that he ‘should’ get out more. It wasn’t that he cared too much, one way or the other. Only that some part of him, his long-dead mother perhaps, insisted. “Walter, get out there and play with the other kids. Do you want them to think something’s wrong with you?”.

For a long time, Walter had wondered if there was something ‘wrong’ with him. He’d covertly watched his classmates at school. He noted how easily they gathered, like iron filings to a magnet. He supposed something was missing in him, some internal organ perhaps. Walter had had a dog once born with only three legs. He wasn’t crippled in the way you’d expect. He kept up gamely, barely even a hobble. It was reassuring. Walter decided he’d take a lesson from that hound, refuse to submit to inadequacy.

He’s managed his day with routines, he woke early did the myriad chores required of him unbegrudgingly, ate three square meals, and went to bed early. He listened to the radio occasionally and didn’t own a t.v. He couldn’t see the point. None of it was real. He did have a computer, though other than the banking, it too seemed useless.

Walter did go to church though. Something about the horizontal pews was a comfort to him, long benches, plenty of room for anyone. It was a place where a person could just be. Folks would acknowledge him with a slight nod, and he’d nod back. It seems expected, was something he could manage.

One unseasonably warm Sunday in June, Walter stepped into the church, noting the familiar creak of the scuffed floorboards, the mildew smell of windows inadequately sealed against the spring rains, and the compressed smell of bodies, of woman’s lotions and potions. He also noted the gabbling. Usually, before the service started, there was a murmuring not unlike chickens, unalarmed clucking, and fussing. This was different. It was loud, excited. Walter slid into the pew, shifting the flyer giving the rundown of the service. Walter didn’t know why they bothered. Seemed a waste of paper. The sermons were all variations of the same theme. The pastor, while adequate, was hardly a holy roller. Margaret Mackenzie puffed her way down the aisle, squeezing her considerable bulk in beside him. She was an overdone woman, not much older than Walter, maybe fifty though Walter considered her ‘old’. Maybe it was the too-tight polyester dress, straining at the buttons, or the way she wore pantyhose that collected around her ankles like worn-out skin. Or maybe it was the way her blue eye shadow thickly creased on her small brown eyes. Walter thought Margaret flighty, a source of continuous nervous chatter. He hoped the pastor would appear soon to stopper the flow. Margaret turned to him, placing a warm meaty hand on his shoulder. He almost jumped.

“Margaret”, he said by way of acknowledgment and to cover his surprise. “Walter, haven’t you been listening? Next Sunday is a big picnic, several congregations are gathering. Can you imagine? Walter could, though he didn’t want to. Such a fuss.

“They’re bussing them in. It’s going to be quite the shin-ding. I think I’ll make my raspberry tarts.” She leaned in conspiratorially, “I’ve won first place three years running, so that ought to suffice”. Margaret nodded to herself as if he’d spoken praise. All that information in one breathless phrase. Walter was mildly astonished. Margaret paused to shove her smeared glasses back up to the bridge of her nose. She looked like she expected something of him. “You’ll be there then”, she nodded satisfied, though he hadn’t responded. “Good for you Walter, you’ll see, it will be fun”. Margaret was the kind of person you didn’t need to speak to at all to keep up your end of the conversation.

The service passed in a blur of thumbed hymnals, off-key warbling, bible verses intoned and the well-trod admonishment to treat your brother as you would expect to be treated. Walter mused he didn’t expect much, which was a sure way to avoid disappointment and obligation. He figured he could write his own self-help books. Better than the drivel his sister Sarah was always pressing into his hands whenever she and her puffed up husband visited. Uncharacteristically, Walter would bait her whenever they spoke on the phone by pretending to misremember her husband’s name.

“How’s Dirk?” “Walter, heavens, I’ve told you a thousand times, it’s Derek”.

Sarah was well-meaning, but righteous, a combination that was sorely trying. Four years Walter’s junior, you’d think she’d invented parenthood the way she mothered him. Walter wondered why she’d decided not to have kids. He doubted very much it was her idea. He suspected Derek was such a baby he wouldn’t tolerate competition from a real toddler. It wasn’t something they’d ever discussed though.

“Walter, Derek and I have talked about this, and we just think you should get out more. It’s for your own good. How do you expect to ever meet someone when you’re holed up the way you are”. Although Walter was pretty certain Derek never ‘discussed’ him, other than to nod occasionally when Sarah started up, the very idea of her bringing up family business rankled fiercely. Walter could barely tolerate the idea of Derek being part of the family, claiming him as his ‘brother’ as he had done in a drunken, reeling ‘hug’ right after wedding his sister. Right before he puked all over Sarah’s embroidered silk heels. Classy.

Derek was a big guy, everything about him loud, his voice, the way he chewed his food, the way he steamrolled over every dinner conversation Walter had been forced to attend.

“Come on Walter, we’re the only family you’ve got”, Sarah would plead, like it really mattered. Walter reluctantly appeared on time and left as early as politely possible. His jaw would ache from the tension of biting back the words he wished to fling at Derek.

As Walter filed out of the church, still fuming from the imagined conversations he would never have with Derek, Margaret called out. “You hoo, Walter, hold up”.

Walter wondered briefly if he could just keep walking, pretend he hadn’t heard but rejected the idea as too obvious.

“Margaret”, he said it the way most people said goodbye to the dentist.

“Walter, in case you needed more encouragement to attend next Sunday, I was speaking to your sister. I’ve convinced her to come too! It will be such a gathering.”

Walter was taken aback. Sarah? At church? Sarah hadn’t attended church since their father died twenty years ago. His death was awful, coming as it did slowly, torturously. Sarah’s rage was uncompromising. Despite her mother’s appeal, she would not attend the church service, though she did appear at his grave, pale and furious towards a God whose cruelty was unbound. “Margaret. I know you mean well”, although Walter suspected Margaret only cared for the furor it would create. Now he’d have to attend damn it. Margaret looked at him appraisingly.

“Don’t thank me Walter. I did for Sarah”.

The fan

The fan's slow rotation slices the humid air with a screech of protest. It isn't cooling anything. More like smearing the hot around. I am splayed out on a too thin mattress. My skin sticks to the sheets and I suck the  air in small sips like I'm drinking scalding tea. A sheen of sweat slicks me. My limbs are languid and lolling. No energy to explore the city I'd flown half way around the world to see. A cacophony of noise thuds through thin walls, blaring horns, calls to prayer, traffic, a thousand voices all talking at once. Wildly discordant, it vibrates through me. And the smells. Diesel exhaust, food spiced and curried, rotted and flowered, sharp and musty swirled together to create something entirely new, undefinable. 

Beside me he pants. Small white pustules from heat rash blossom on his forehead and cheeks. His hair is slick and sodden. His eyes look dull. A Lonely Planet guide lays open on his chest, edges damp, cover creased.

"We should try to see the palace". 

"We should try to make a snow fort. We could dig in, build a shelf to hold all our snowballs. I like to pile mine in pyramids for easy access.  You know that blue green light that shines through when you're looking up? So beautiful. Don't you love how your breath plumes, like it's gained substance. Or how about  when your woolen mitts get those hard little balls of snow on them. You know how you can kind of nibble them and let them melt on your tongue and then spit out the linty bits? It's even okay when you have to dig the balls of snow that jam in the tops of your boots or blow on your wrists cause your sleeves have ridden up and they're stinging. Even the sound of snow is gorgeous. It makes so many different sounds. I guess it depends on how cold it is, whether it's soft and powdery or hard and full of those crystals".

"You know, the Inuit have thousands of different names for snow".

"No they don't idiot. I'm sure it's not thousands...maybe twenty though".

"Do you think the people that live here have as many names for heat"?

I let my arm drop over the side of the bed and swing my hand against the tile, seeing if perhaps it's cooler on the floor. It isn't.

"There's only one name for heat like this".

"Yah, what's that"?

"Hellish".

"That fits. Definitely fits". 

"But I thought you said we were flying to paradise".

With a groan he rolls into a sitting position. 

"Well, I think there was some confusion then. It happens. Sometimes people who are sure they're going to heaven end up somewhere else entirely".

"And you think that's what happened with us? That we only thought we lived a good life"?

"Maybe. I don't know. I can barely think. My head feels stuffed with hot cotton rags".

"How do you know"?

"Know what"?

"What hot cotton rags would even feel like".

"Shit, you're talk is tiring me out. Even sitting tires me out. Christ". 

"Okay. Lets do something. Isn't there a mall somewhere with air conditioning?"

"A mall. Right. In your dreams".

I sat up too. My thighs were they touched one another pooled sweat. 

"I bet I stink. Did you know people here think foreigners smell like spoiled milk? No one drinks it here, so we've all got this spit-up smell. Isn't that gross"?

"Gross for them. Should we get on a bus and subject them to our stench to pay them back for the lack of air conditioning"?

"Okay. Lets go to the palace. They've probably got marble benches. That might be cooler. We could get naked on the marble benches and fan ourselves with guide books."

"I wonder how many westerners get arrested for doing that"?

"I don't know. It's something the guide book never mentions".

We stand, jam our feet into our flip flops, place our still soggy money belts against our bellies and stomp down the stairs. I feel clumsy. Too big for my body. Too big for this place. The women here are tiny. Miniature perfect. Golden skin and silky black hair. They don't smell like sour milk. They wear saris, bright colours fitted to smooth bodies. They move like water. Here I am clunky, awkward. I move like my feet weigh me down, like I'm flattened by the heat.

Leslie Soles

Oct 10