Lessons Of Chaos And Disaster by Catherine Black

Author:Catherine Black
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Poetry
Publisher: Guernica Editions
Published: 2007-08-31T00:00:00+00:00

Impressions in Concrete

Walk to the next panel of sidewalk and you will find the impression of a leaf. Walk to the next panel of sidewalk and you will find the year of your birth: 1975. Walk down the block to the last panel of sidewalk and you will find the footprints of a panicked squirrel. I am sharing the cottage with a red squirrel and my dog. The squirrel is living behind the spice cupboard, filling his bulbous gut with nutmeg and cloves. He is gnawing on the sticks of cinnamon. I can smell him behind the wires. He is moments away from electrocution. I hear him scratching behind the paneling, behind the cereal boxes. I trap him with peanut butter and the cage slams shut. I hear him in the rain, racing from side to side, his claws over the slamming metal baitplate. I think about the twist of his claws in the metal mesh. From the bedroom, I can hear the rocketing of his heartbeat, his scraping claws. I am afraid to find his mouth bloody in the morning. When I release him, he darts into the woodpile, and I am sorry that he hasn’t saved me a spot underneath the suddenly sodden cuts of pine. I fall asleep with white wine and Gravol, the words of an angry song on a mouse-wheel just above my jaw. The onset of the purple-blue panic, so little remains of it now. Just the lake from the height of the boat-house, and the bleeding of dusk over the smooth water, and the inky, thumbprint heartbeats, pressing on and on like they will never quit. The barstool across from the mental institution, and the mental institution, the elevator opening to reveal a man on the fourth floor watching a game show behind a glass window. The faces of these people, waiting for me to get off the elevator, wide, eager, hungry faces and my finger on the “Close Door” button. “Sit in the chair while we spin you. Look at the dot on the wall for ten minutes and tell us why you feel afraid.” Outside is summertime, and people are working in their coffee shops. Rich kids are cutting wakes on our northern lakes and the bar is stocking up for the night of Latin-fusion drinkers. “How many drinks have you had this week?” Three I think. Maybe more. The back of the taxi cab in Mexico City. The cigarette kisses the wrist with tiny, burning, puckered lips. “Sit in the taxi cab while we spin you. Stare at the moon for ten minutes and tell us why you feel afraid. How does it make you feel? Sad? Draw a picture of it.” I draw a happy home. It is what I draw best. Clouds, tree, sun, house, windows, door, grass, flowers. Happy home. It is posted on the wall. Checkmark. Your pills will make you tie your shoelaces extra loose, you will check that the bottle is still there before

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