Marilyn Goldberg
Bootlegger
My mood is already
piss and vinegar, acid enough
to marinate a spongy
purple eggplant. Willy, my dog
slurps water noisily next to me. I pour
a thick layer of sand onto
the red Persian, drag a knitting
needle through the pile,
leaving the imprint of an octothorpe
which confusingly points eight arms in
four different directions.
I’m lost at sea,
no bearings.
Salty winds howl through a path
of mystical homing pigeons guided by earth and sun.
Cher Ami, one made famous by
soaring through artillery fire to save a battalion of 194,
lost a leg and was awarded the Croix de Guerre.
She stands stuffed and stiff at the Smithsonian.
“What’s next?” the dog queries.
“You look bad. Had enough?”
I pick up Atwood’s paperback version
of Morning in the Burned House
recently abandoned into a bin near my bed.
Her compelling, unmistakable voice
echoes through the room yet
my own trails off, adrift in the
murky sludge of a literary oil spill.
Lethargy descends: not been out for days.
Nasty 19 with its fatty carapace
glowering in our faces, stopping us dead
Not exactly a spritz of No. 5.
My thumb muscle aches from
clutching the ballpoint, which reads
“Best wishes for 2020!” Love, Frank.
Think the dog’s been bootlegging.
She whelps, wanting out. Before we leave
she offers me a beer. I take a swig and
scratch out the last letter in my notebook.
—Submitted on 07/29/2020
Marilyn Goldberg is a retired teacher in Toronto.
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