Remembrance day puzzles me
This is a thing that happened to me today and then I made it into a poem. It's a long poem, or a short story.
The restaurant is open faced.
The hot afternoon is rolling down my spine.
The laksa is spicy.
I shouldn’t have bought up Umberto Eco.
But it’s Remembrance Day.
“The idea is it’s like incest,
like it took humans years to work out
consanguinity was bad for the genetic pool
and stuff,
and then it was taboo.
Maybe this is the age when we realise
war is bad.
It’s practically already taboo.
No one wanted the mid-east.”
“Some would say that nine eleven
was an inside job,” my mother nods to herself.
“Then you really are a bigger cynic
then I am.” I scratch my wrist scar.
“You’re very young.”
She puts her chopsticks parallel across the bowl.
“It’s like how atheists
don’t just not believe in god,
we hate him.”
My voice falls to a whisper:
humid weather always makes me sick.
I clear my throat.
“I don’t want to believe
someone in charge of a country
would do that to their own people.”
“They would to stay in charge.
People want to stay in power.
This is a man who thinks torture is a good idea.”
My throat burns.
It’s humid,
and the laksa is spicy.
“It’s not like it was George Bush’s idea.
He’s a figure head.”
“He said so in his book,
water boarding saves lives.
He said that in his book.”
“I don’t think
he was really in a position to say otherwise.
I don’t think he wrote that book.”
She’s got red specks
from the tom yum gum
on her white shirt.
She looks out at the street,
windshields of all the parked cars
reflecting the oncoming storm.
An Asian lady takes our bowls
with a head bob and
meaning-free smile.
“It only takes one person
to say no,” she says,
still looking at the street
and the sky.
“Does it?”
I’m very young.
I’m a realist.
Cynics and agnostics are
just optimists
in more stylish hats.
“Are you done?” she says,
starting a different conversation.
She drops her paper napkin.
I hold out my iced tea.
“It’s hot.” She frowns.
“I mean it’s hot, outside,
would you like my cold drink.”
She finishes the bottle.
She is nothing if not graceful.
My throat is burning
and my lungs feel tight,
like I’m breathing sponges,
wrestling with chunks of air
as alive as anacondas.
“We had a moment of silence in court today.”
She tucks her wallet into her handbag.
“A whole minute, we stopped,
it was ridiculous.”
“They say lest we forget.
They don’t say what we’re not forgetting.
It can be anything you want it to be.”
I tilt my face up.
“Remember stupid fucking politicians,
they know war is good for the economy.
Is it good for the economy
when boys are dying,
boys.”
“Lots of people die,
all the time,
for no reason.”
“Everytime I say something, you don’t have to top it.
With something more negative,
it’s not a competition.”
“It’s raining,” I say,
starting a new conversation.
“Your father does that.
It’s ugly and it’s pointless.”
I tilt my face up, water runs down it.
“Is there an umbrella in the car?”
“Yes. You know I love you very much
and I want you to be happy?”
“Yes. I love you too.”
The restaurant is open faced.
The hot afternoon is rolling down my spine.
The laksa is spicy.
I shouldn’t have bought up Umberto Eco.
But it’s Remembrance Day.
“The idea is it’s like incest,
like it took humans years to work out
consanguinity was bad for the genetic pool
and stuff,
and then it was taboo.
Maybe this is the age when we realise
war is bad.
It’s practically already taboo.
No one wanted the mid-east.”
“Some would say that nine eleven
was an inside job,” my mother nods to herself.
“Then you really are a bigger cynic
then I am.” I scratch my wrist scar.
“You’re very young.”
She puts her chopsticks parallel across the bowl.
“It’s like how atheists
don’t just not believe in god,
we hate him.”
My voice falls to a whisper:
humid weather always makes me sick.
I clear my throat.
“I don’t want to believe
someone in charge of a country
would do that to their own people.”
“They would to stay in charge.
People want to stay in power.
This is a man who thinks torture is a good idea.”
My throat burns.
It’s humid,
and the laksa is spicy.
“It’s not like it was George Bush’s idea.
He’s a figure head.”
“He said so in his book,
water boarding saves lives.
He said that in his book.”
“I don’t think
he was really in a position to say otherwise.
I don’t think he wrote that book.”
She’s got red specks
from the tom yum gum
on her white shirt.
She looks out at the street,
windshields of all the parked cars
reflecting the oncoming storm.
An Asian lady takes our bowls
with a head bob and
meaning-free smile.
“It only takes one person
to say no,” she says,
still looking at the street
and the sky.
“Does it?”
I’m very young.
I’m a realist.
Cynics and agnostics are
just optimists
in more stylish hats.
“Are you done?” she says,
starting a different conversation.
She drops her paper napkin.
I hold out my iced tea.
“It’s hot.” She frowns.
“I mean it’s hot, outside,
would you like my cold drink.”
She finishes the bottle.
She is nothing if not graceful.
My throat is burning
and my lungs feel tight,
like I’m breathing sponges,
wrestling with chunks of air
as alive as anacondas.
“We had a moment of silence in court today.”
She tucks her wallet into her handbag.
“A whole minute, we stopped,
it was ridiculous.”
“They say lest we forget.
They don’t say what we’re not forgetting.
It can be anything you want it to be.”
I tilt my face up.
“Remember stupid fucking politicians,
they know war is good for the economy.
Is it good for the economy
when boys are dying,
boys.”
“Lots of people die,
all the time,
for no reason.”
“Everytime I say something, you don’t have to top it.
With something more negative,
it’s not a competition.”
“It’s raining,” I say,
starting a new conversation.
“Your father does that.
It’s ugly and it’s pointless.”
I tilt my face up, water runs down it.
“Is there an umbrella in the car?”
“Yes. You know I love you very much
and I want you to be happy?”
“Yes. I love you too.”