One Day, elbows will nudge in darkened theatres.
One Day, voices will harmonize with fingers interlocked.
One Day, sweet smiles will follow “sorry” when strangers collide.
One Day, arms will wrap lost warmth tightly, unapologetically.
Today: I long for One Day.
Lobster Mat by Art Marée Haute
I am crustaceal, half-molted.
There’s space enough
between my body and shell
that a fisher would find
my defenses shot.
Ecdysis, biannual self.
I am a commodity, export,
no longer poor-man’s food
prepared by wives
in drafty kitchens.
The engines are off,
hands still.
There will be time again
to be pulled upward,
lifted from saltwater.
For now, the pull is within
and away from myself.
Without rigidity, rocks appeal.
My octet steps take me there.
I am economical, shellfish-savvy.
At the pound, I ensure
there is never a paucity.
In tanks like swimming pools,
lobsters lay dormant,
unfed and ready
for take-off to China.
400 000 suspended,
banded by colour
and crated by size.
There’s no catch now
so we ship our reserves,
fill holes in markets.
My wetgear smells like saltwater
but I’ve been inside.
At home, at night
I dream of lobsters
still uncaught –
their armour frayed,
forming.
farmer blood, peasant blood,
managing-to-hold-on-by-a-thread blood
seeps from veins into deepening soil,
willing things to grow in desolate places.
we’ve always picked things,
soft things and hardened things —
bajra, jowar, rice, sugar cane, and cotton
that made our hands bleed for days, for years.
transplanted to far off soil,
from rich earth and fertile loam,
we pick foreign things,
luscious things and beautiful things —
strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, and sometimes
late-summer blackberries just for fun.
transplanted to not so far off soil,
we pick newer things,
hot desert sun things and prickly things —
peaches, apricots and grapes of wine we will never drink,
grapes that sparkle hard
before they’re crushed and dissolve
into liquid or vapor.
Never Enough photo by Moni Brar
I. MEASURE; MIX
two cups of lukewarm water
the temperature of our beating hearts
two and a half teaspoons yeast
dropped without warning
one teaspoon of sea salt
since we could not cry for fear
a quarter cup of oil
we learned to count it out
one cup of wheat flour
fourteen days self-isolation
two cups of wheat flour
sudden rising unemployment
three cups of wheat flour
countries closing borders
four cups of wheat flour
all those days inside the house
five cups of wheat flour
hospital capacity and ICU beds
one last half-cup for good measure
untested, infected, transmitted, dead
my hands are sticky with dough
their throats were choked with tubes
my hands are sticky with dough
the crematoria ran day and night
my hands are sticky with dough
we were not prepared for this
my hands are sticky with dough
mercy, lord, have mercy on us
II. KNEAD
We read the news from Wuhan, from Italy,
tuned in faithfully to Angela, Boris, Donald, Justin,
while the county health units counted bodies.
We learned what the bakers have always known
about rough handling, the imputation of strength,
how the dough only becomes resilient
after it goes through a painful surrender.
The news pummeled us with statistics and warnings.
We learned to absorb the shuddering blows
as our souls became windowpane-thin.
III. RISE
Wear your mask
out on the street.
Beware the leaven
of the Pharisees.
Activate, foment,
incubate, rise.
Rise up, rise
up—
Uprise.
IV. BAKE
What the bread gave us back was time:
carte-blanche permission to stop, to rest,
to relish the impossibility of rush or hurry.
We could spend our minutes kneading dough,
shaping loaves, carefully feeding a starter
we had given an improbable name.
We sat on kitchen floors and waited
while it rose, waited while it baked,
while it cooled, letting the time run out
between our fingers like sand.
Flower Power (non-medical mask) by Darlene Kulig
take three pounds of flesh and bone
cleave the block in two
trim the fat but leave the muscle
these hands must grip knives
use a boning blade
to fillet grooves between fingers
slice off the thumb tip
a destined loss
etch a jagged scar across one broad palm
from middle finger to heel
a fate line
carve it as if this hand caught
a falling saw
score nicks and cuts on fingers front and back
for rough texture
rub in porcine fat palm and back
for softness
purge the thin red water
pour thick blood back into veins
keep these hands raw
for that sweet scent of autumn
of fresh rain mingling with decay
keep these hands raw
to deftly move between the flesh of the dead
and that of the living
Time by Sally Warren
