the world, again and again
How could a world just go like that?
“poof,” said the world, mocking me. By the hand of a child with his tongue out was how the world went.
“It was easy,” the child said, “and it was fun to do.”
I, a very serious grown up, am holding the grief as rage. Actually, holding is too generous. I am buckled under it. Rage that is so big, it is now Rage that I think of when someone uses the phrase, “something larger than yourself”.
I, a very serious grown up, am left with the thankless task of reaction.
And you are still the child I didn’t raise run rampant in my house. Didn’t your mother teach you manners? Didn’t your mother give you enough attention? Didn’t you tell me the story of how your mother carried you around the grocery store until you were eight? Didn’t your mother like me? Didn’t your mother love me? Doesn’t your mother miss me?
Well look at you now. Snot-nosed and pink cheeked, digging a hole in my rug with your big toe, “I didn’t do it” and you know we both know. Here lies the whole world at your feet, that pristine that crystalline that collectable spherical miracle shattered to all corners of the— corners of the, of well, the corners of the room. And you’re the only person who's been in here all day so you tell me, who did this?
In a huff I pick up my purse, I put my sunglasses on top of my head, I hold the keys between my fingers and balance the cup of coffee in my palm. “When I get back from work,” I tell you, “I want the world back the way you found it.”
Before the world went poof.
By Kate Nerone, 2022
The Market
Come to the downtown farmer’s market:
The trees here tickle the sky.
Don’t worry darling, here you’ll find
The apple of your eye.
Come wander through the cumbersome aisles,
Pluck your poison left and right.
Pinch the berries till they bleed.
Wave the pests into their flight.
Go off and trail away
From the crowd which now appears,
Take the Masons from the shelves,
Hold your sneeze and pollen tears.
When you see a pleasant Pear,
Rump ripe and swollen chest,
Thrust your hands into the pile,
Go on now, be our guest!
Don’t settle for that autumn delicacy,
the one that crowns the stock.
Too many grimey prints have pressed her,
She’s been gutted, soiled, rocked.
Too many hands have measured her
And prodded at her flesh,
Her ample body is bruised,
Her taste too sweet to digest.
You’ll want one that is pure,
That only you can spoil,
Something you can dig your bones into
And suck on for a while.
Take this one wedged beneath
Where it is easy to take pity.
She isn’t often chosen,
And to you that makes her pretty.
Come to the downtown market!
And weigh us in your hands,
Ravage us in the gentle sunshine,
And come back as soon as you can!
by Kate Nerone, 2017