Patricia Young - Short Takes on the Apocalypse

SHORT TAKES ON THE APOCALPYSE SHORT TAKES ON THE APOCALPYSE PATRICIA YOUNG Biblioasis
Windsor, ON Copyright Patricia Young, 2016 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777. FIRST EDITION Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Young, Patricia, 1954, author Short takes on the apocalypse / Patricia Young. Poems. Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77196-135-6 (paperback). ISBN 978-1-77196-136-3 (ebook) I. Title. PS8597.O67S56 2016 C811.54 C2016-902735-X C2016-902736-8 Edited by Anita Lahey Copy-edited by Allana Amlin Typeset by Ellie Hastings Cover designed by Chris Andrechek
Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. Biblioasis also acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit. contents Spun Shrunk Broken The Kindness of Hutterites / 13 The First Vegans / 14 Carnivore Brain / 16 Bite / 17 Whos Looking at Us Now? / 18 Danza De Los Viejitos (Dance of the Old Men) / 19 Story Time / 21 Another Man of God Running from the Law / 23 Spun Shrunk Broken / 25 Short Takes on the Apocalypse / 27 What It Was Like Living in a Spaghetti Western / 29 Adolescence / 31 At the Gates of Death / 32 Marginalia / 34 One More Reason for Divorce / 35 The Boy Who Cried Wolf / 36 Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? / 37 Coachella Festival (a Semi-Found Poem) / 39 Dear Diary / 40 Forest Chronicle / 42 Father Suite / 43 Puzzle / 45 A Few Questions to Consider / Hilda Doolittle in the 21 st Century / 48 Cabin Time / 50 Grade Seven Social Studies Unit / 52 Fifteen / 53 McAlpine Tartan / 54 The Old House / 55 Swan / 56 Instructions on Dyeing the White Dress Green / 57 My Father Believed There Was Money to be Made Buying and Selling Houses / 59 Ode to the Tumbleweed / 60 Passionate Little Pantoum Uttered in The Dark / 61 Handyman / 62 Venus of Urbino / 63 Wreckage / 65 The Pink Sea / 66 Cake Decorating Prize / 67 The Thing Called Bliss / 68 Vanishing / 69 Too Many Guns in the House Tornado in the Bible Belt / 72 Sales Pitch / 73 Ravished / 74 How Was It for You? / 75 Hearse / 76 Vermeers Women / 77 Chagalls Lovers / 79 Game / 81 The Course of True (Animal) Love / 82 Fiesta / Family / 84 Sexual Contortionist / 85 The Moon as It / 86 Too Many Guns in the House / 87 Old Lady Country / 88 Sublet in the City / 90 The Enigmatic One / 92 Petunias Pop Up Alphabet Book / 93 I Come From a Family of / 95 Robert Redford, Grocery Store, Main Street, USA / 97 A Dark and Ominous Tale / 99 Literary Soiree / 101 Movie About a Man Writing a Novel / 102 Ten Years After the Divorce / 103 The Pregnant Woman as Passive Voice / 105 Yet Another Story About Eden / 107 for Terence Spun Shrunk Broken THE KINDNESS OF HUTTERITES I am oppressed with a dread of living forever.

That is the only disadvantage of vegetarianism. George Bernard Shaw When the boy enters the farmers market the Hutterite women shake their heads and cluck their tongues. He stops at their stall Saturday mornings to stock up on vegetables. But carrots will fatten up no one. Chard and cucumbers wont put meat on his bones. A heavy-set, robust people, the Hutterites can still remember the starving centuries.

Even now, in this land of plenty, their DNA carries the memory of that old world hunger. Poor kid, they mutter, shoulder blades sticking out like the beginning of wings. But the Hutterite women (bless their pacifist hearts) are getting on. At three score and ten, their eyesight has dimmed. They cant see that the boy is much older than they are, hes older than Methuselah, son of Enoch, grandfather of Noah. That hes outlived thirty-six wives, fathered more than three hundred children, that his great-great-grandchildren are like the stars.

Potatoes , the women say, offering the boy a free, ten-pound bag. This is good food. Go home. Eat. the first vegans Heart attacksGods revenge for eating his little animal friends. Anonymous In the beginning Adam and Eve spent their days gaping.

Their eyes bulged and their jaws hung slack. Look at this. Whats that? Who made that hooting sound? Did you? They gaped at the persimmon-streaked sky, a dewdrop balanced on the tip of a leaf. The moon! Dangling white orb. They gaped at water, the way it trickled over rocks and through their fingers. Gaped at each other, their wondrous beauty, and also their own twiddling thumbs.

They wandered the garden, plucking breakfast off trees. Pulled lunch out of the ground. Munched and grazed through dinner. Like the other herbivores, their intestinal tracts were long and convoluted, their molars flat. Even the dirt tasted good enough eat. In time they grew bored of Edens cornucopia.

Life had become a succession of peeling rinds, grinding nuts, spitting out husks. One morning Eve woke with strange hankerings so set to work inventing things: knife, spoon, pot, recipe. Experimented with roasting and broiling, sauces and marinades. Youre a genius, babe, Adam said, nuzzling her neck after a hard day of naming the animals. Puleease, she said, its the least a helpmeet can do. Evening meals were now elaborate feasts, after which theyd make buoyant love, then gape at each other until they fell into a deep and heavenly sleep.

The first baby arrived. Then another and another. Every nine months a baby popped out. Eve was fond of them, sure, but they were so helpless and needed her, body and soul. Soul? She furrowed her brow. Adam, honey, whats a soul? No time now for chopping or dicing, mashing or mincing.

Who had the patience for de-seeding a pomegranate just to garnish a yam and chickpea tajine? Vegetables were more demanding than babies. And then the night in bed when she moaned: Cant do it anymore. Hack up another cabbage. Besides, the kids hate cabbage, hate turnip, hate eggplant. Adam grunted. Want me to speak to Yahweh? Eve stroked her husbands belly, her fingers like the tendrils of young pea shoots.

Oh no, she whispered, dont bother Him. Youre a smart guy. Youll think of something CARNIVORE BRAIN the time will come when men such as I will look upon the murder of animals as they now look upon the murder of men. Leonardo da Vinci The cutlets on your plate remind you of something, you cant remember what, but it doesnt matter because the bodies of animals are leaking onto the tablecloth, they are bleeding onto your lap. What does it matter? Remember the day you tripped on the sidewalk, walking too fast, oblivious of the bumps and dips in the pavement? Your suddenly split knee weeping plasma and platelets? The cutlets on your plate remind you of someone the man you had sex with later that evening after a meal of red meat and red wine. You cant remember his face but that doesnt matter because this is no vegetable reverie, this is your carnivore brain rolling that man in butter and crumbs.