Polite corporate women, mostly, and men, ask for my signature, so they can help me pay for needles to prick into my belly and thigh.
But surgery is not so bad instead, the dr said later, almost sidewinding his breath at me from his padded chair. Later, with two kids in the car, on this less traveled road, which, by the way, has made all the difference–my children sleeping from the steadiness of it– I thump straight into a body, and the car blooms feathers in the mirror, and all I can think is will there be evidence and what should I do?
If Grief Were My Birthday Party
I would quietly discard the cake before tucking into memories like neat little packages waiting to be opened, and of course, I would be grateful for the careful attention paid to wrapping, as though absence could be improved with brightly colored paper, a bow. Afterwards, I would settle into a nap, then rise from my hammock, wonder at the proliferation of shadows beneath the trees, and then, realizing the mess of paper cups and plates, gather it all into a great black bag, and sigh, perhaps, at the ease of cleaning, the end of a day planned, lived, and gone.
Jacob Jans lives in Toronto with his wife and two daughters. He is the co-creator of The Poetry Marathon, which brings together hundreds of poets from around the world. He has been previously published in SOFTBLOW, Two Words For, the anthology Noisy Water, and the Imago newsletter.