Account & Other Poems
Account
We are gathered here tonight because we’ve been informed there is strength in numbers. The 7’s and 9’s have rolled up their tees to compare biceps while the 4’s heatedly discuss button-up vs. button-down. Around midnight, the 8’s wander off into the woods in search of the legendary infinity pool, leaving a scattering of 3’s at our feet that look like lethal frisbees with bites taken out of them. One of the 5’s is pissed we keep mistaking it for an S. “Do I have to spell it out for you?” it asks, but no one’s listening. At long last, the 0’s and 1’s take charge despite howls coming from the darkness encircling this mainframe we’ve managed to keep burning. When the screen reads “manged” instead of “managed” we debate whether it’s a typing mistake, or a wolfish autocorrection fed on freshly-killed algorithms whose numerological significance is incalculable. Incalculable like us, no matter how many repetitions we perform, no matter how carefully we compute the sums that track our decline. We tell ourselves there is comfort in numbers and the countdown begins.
Fights
Fights break out over stalks of celery, position of succulents, property lines drawn in thin air. Fire hoses of invective, fists pounding fenders and elm trees. People bringing tin cups filled to the brim with water — drops fly, land on a burning earth, sizzle and evaporate before any commas can be inserted in the latest tirade. Was it always like this? Or only long ago, when worms had teeth, when daily grudges had no words, when toy guns were made out of sticks and not plastic? It was always more fun to play the villain, imagining we were secret members of an underground rebellion sworn to break through the static language erected like chain-link around the perimeter of our dreams. We didn’t want to wake up, but we did, to the sound of loud voices down below.
Let Me Get This Straight
Let me get this straight, why I’m short of breath, this thing about cold air holding more humidity than warm air, or is it less? There’s my problem right there — the way I forget what I’ve just read — so let me get this straight. When I read something I should write it down to help me remember, but let me get this straight, they’re not teaching cursive anymore? That’s right, that was true but not now, they’re teaching it again, it’s good for the brain, carves those neural trenches deep enough for memory’s wastewater to find its way back to the sea. So let me get this straight, if I wrote this in a notebook instead of at a keyboard, areas of my brain would light up like a city grid, whole neighborhoods burning in the dark, places you could get in trouble in if you’re not careful, or find yourself lost in. Like now, trying to get this straight, this thing about moisture and lungs, trying to figure out relative humidity and whether or not humidifier or dehumidifier, and if so which one. Which one — O god! —the tyranny of user reviews, all those multi-headed jaws snapping at me, breathing their sour breath, one-starred complainers capitalizing their broken complaints, filling me with second thoughts, freezing me in my tracks, my crooked tracks that I will never get straight.
Motorcade
No one knows why the motorcade came to our neighbourhood but there it was, snaking through the streets, tires whispering to no one in particular. We left our breakfast table and joined the other families up and down the block, all of us still in our sleepwear standing on our front lawns gawking at the gleaming black limousines rolling past. We saw our distorted reflections in the tinted power windows and hoped one of them would slowly descend to reveal the limo’s interior, a face looking back at us, or at least a hand lifted to dispense a blessing. Even a finger wagged in admonishment would be something. But the windows stayed up. The motorcade moved so slowly it was hard to tell whether or not it’d come to a stop. Our less well-off neighbours, whose yard sprouted signs full of grievances, threatened to egg one of the limousines, but we knew it was an empty threat. They couldn’t risk drawing attention to the illegal coop in their backyard. We might’ve reported them if the eggs they shared with us weren’t so rich in nutrients. Security agents sporting earpieces and mirror shades strolled past, heads swivelling from tree to tree looking for potential threats. They wore dark, well-tailored suits that bespoke an indeterminate gender. “There’s a sign of progress for you,” I told my daughter, “not so long ago it would’ve been only men protecting that motorcade.” Then it disappeared and we went back inside and finished our breakfast. Our eggs had gone rubbery but they were still palatable.
Gravy Train
We play dress-up pretending we’re grownups. This is my hat called Patience. I wear it when I take the toy train to work, carrying my stimulus package briefcase. I hit the office before the sun comes up and look out the big window, watching long-term growth opportunities rising from the prime real estate pre-dawn darkness. Girders held aloft by unseen cranes swing wildly in the wind, making it difficult for pigeons to perch. If I sit here long enough, put in ten thousand hours, collect enough paper clips in this cup, my secretary will one day announce some important visitors — a whole delegation carrying armfuls of jewels, expensive watches, and lots of fancy things we don’t even have names for. “Give it all to the poor,” I tell them, “I did not earn it. And besides, these are stolen. I am arresting you.” They can’t believe what I’m saying, they’re astounded. No one’s ever spoken to them like this before. But I mean business, serious business. Then playtime is over and the adults call us downstairs. All the too-big clothes are scattered on the floor, the dresser drawers are vomiting their contents, the closet is gaping, the hangers are askew and a piece of train track is hiding under the bed. The adults call a second time. Dinner is ready and the stars are out. How long have we been up here? Down the stairs we tumble, in time to pretend we’re children again.
Peter Anderson is a poet, performer and playwright living in Vancouver on the unceded territory of the Coast Salish peoples. His work has appeared in Sublunary Review, Unbroken, duality, SORTES, Frigg, Best Microfictions 2022, and elsewhere. He was a finalist in the 2023 Raven Poetry Chapbook contest.