BY PENNY SARMADA
I work the edges. You may hardly notice at first, the subtle way I imply myself. In a deft but delicate motion I peek underneath to see how you are coming along. I poke and nudge slightly this way and that because I can do no more than that and because of course I care about you. In fact my little pancake, ma petite omelette, you are all I care about. I am your spatula, an item of utile necessity yet of gentle disposition.
Awaken when you will. Shuffle to the sad stairs that go nowhere but down and steady yourself against the tired wall. It is okay to stumble, you have not had your coffee. Find yourself in the kitchen, a place where you put awful things in your mouth and then swallow. It is not healthy, nevertheless here we are. The room is exactly as you left it, untouched except now one day older, one day worse. The dripping tap is older too. And that smell. Tie up the bag and take it outside.
You will not find me on a hook over the stove or shoved into a drawer. I am invisible, weightless. Still I am easy to find. You do not even need to look. I am there. I wait to be called upon, to be pressed into service. It is not my decision. Things happen when they happen. Forgive my halting speech for I am a humble tool and I speak only as your servant. There is nothing for me to do but let the day proceed as it will.
I have grown accustomed to misunderstanding. I am often mistaken for the suffering itself although I am merely the implement that makes the suffering possible.
And so it may seem that I am the hopped up truck driver who does not see the motorcycle turning. That I am the skin that skids across lanes of highway. That I am the goop in the margarita, the no that goes unspoken, that goes unheard, that goes unheeded. That I am the crooked cells that build a factory of pain in your grandmother’s bones. That I am the force that crushes her. That I am a Haitian earthquake and a Chinese flood. That I take the drumsticks out of Charlie’s hands, that I slip the bullet into Alec’s gun. That I am the crack baby, the deadbeat dad, the strung out mother who can no longer cope. That I am the monster that eats your memory and makes you shit out the past until it no longer matters.
I am none of those things. Let us lift carefully around the dry cooked outer edges, together you & I. A deft but delicate motion. Enough to see but not disrupt. I am but a tool and it is you that decides when and where. We both look but it is you that sees or chooses not to see. I am nothing. I can only guide you toward a future that unfolds in sheets of clear plastic spread across the floor and draped from the ceiling to contain the splatter of disappointment.
Then when the time is right we will flip you over, my little grilled cheese sandwich, you & I together, so you can burn on the other side too.
Penny Sarmada is from Ontario. Recent work in Versification, Sledgehammer, Selcouth Station, Pink Plastic House, Bombfire, Roi Fainéant, Tiny Wren and Bullshit Lit.