The Art of Living
I have measured out my life in K-cups.
Please add snow shovelling, foreign wars,
daddy longlegs, vowels to the list. Rain
fell yesterday like a ritual. My children
are scared of thunderstorms. A golden
retriever is missing says a flyer stapled
to a hydro pole. God is lost. Life feels
unscripted. I say rivers, fauna, skyscraper
expecting my hands, my mind to gift-wrap
it all into meaning. My language is tired
of looking for a common denominator.
Behind every word, the sound of a hinge
opening. Behind things entering my eyes,
a bridge to understanding. Press an ear
to my chest to hear a hive of confessions.
Honey is the essence of wild flowers. Blood
is the essence of life owed to a sun, a star
at the centre of our galaxy. I remember this
despite the supermarket Muzak. Despite
my failure to imitate blue skies. Small talk
exhausts me at parties. Radio telescopes
probe the universe for mysterious chatter
like these sentences full of flowers and
flood waters, love and work retirements,
quasars and champagne. The art of living
is seeing each other beyond addictions
and condos. I have waited my whole life
to say one true thing. To wear a halo of
knowing. Outside phenomena and inside
impulses collide. I am the sparks flying.
By Chris Banks