Again

By E. S. Taillon

My head bubbling over
shrinks me to the size of an ant,
a grain of sand, the speck
of dust on one flat side of the grain of sand. And like this
 
each slat of the boardwalk is a harrowing novelty
of wooden mountains and valleys, a land flowing.
 
Make camp in the eye of a knot, provisions,
tall tales in the orange light. A woodlouse asks
why I’m here again, tiny. I pat his chitinous flank.
I forgot how to be person-sized. But so did he.
 
The small matter of my head, squeezed, drifting,
stealing away from camp in the dead of night
to go dancing on the head of a boardwalk nail.
Thinks there is an archangel contained within,
that every flat surface is an invitation. Bats
the size of dragons flicker above, parsing their
bat problems. The air is forlorn but it feels
like maybe if we put down roots it’ll be okay.
 
I will not be big enough to weigh down the buttons
of my neighbour’s landline phone. I will be small
enough to slip under the poorly-insulated door and
watch her cat turn slow nebula eyes in my direction
 
and to listen to the tap run, and pots clang,
their mundane conversation rendered
voices from the ether. How I’ll miss
pressing the power button then, and
 
also the way my office chair isn’t quite right for my posture,
the spreadsheets, the five new emails, the
getting up before the sun. I will miss it.
There was a dull beauty to it, like sand.

---

Cure

By E. S. Taillon

one of my business development goals
for next year is to improve my SEO knowledge
            you appeared
            you were found
 
the Ontario Superior Court of Justice
            all persons, current or former
            data breach publicly disclosed
submit a completed and signed claim form
 
Exquisite, magazine-worthy. Exceptional and exclusive. Prime Neighbourhood.
A river of quartz, a waterfall of glass. West-facing.
High-end ceilings barely containing the flood of sunlight. All is wide open
for your private perusal. Wide enough to walk in and softly
close the cabinetry. Drawers and closets full of space.
How many pieces do you want in the bathroom?
Your feet will be perfectly toasty on the heated floors.
Everything separate: the balcony, the garage, the entrance.
Wrapped in sumptuous walls. Real: you are real and present.
Estate: the glory of private property, of fences, passing on.
Master bedroom. Mortgage. 3 bed 2 bath 1 car 2.5 kids.
 
in support of Daily Bread Food bank
            as easy as possible
            east side
            happiest of holidays
sponsored by Realty™

---

Touchstone

By E. S. Taillon

​He asks us as we’re driving off if we’re sure
the stove and fireplace were off. We should
turn back at this point, but we don’t. I say,
“it’s not too late.” Mental math: we don’t.
 
He calls at night to ask again.
Sometimes one anxiety beats the shit out of another.
 
Sometimes you have to carry in you
that splinter of error. To walk away.
To allow the unlocked door,
the raccoons pissing in your bed,
your possessions stolen and scattered
along the icy driveway, the neighbour
sleepwalking in and tripping on a cable
and cracking his head open on the counter.
 
And if you left the iron on? It falls,
catches a tablecloth. A clock made of
fabric, smoke, and wood moves its
sinister hands. How many buildings
would burn with yours? Five red lights
from here to the fire station.
 
Summoned spectres. We do witchcraft
with knots, taps, and doors. We bend
the world into a funny trap. If I could be
as wildly possible as a car in neutral
running rogue into the sea, I would;
I’d change into a flood, a wild creature.

---

​Order P-215578

By E. S. Taillon

“I’m just going to be blunt with you.
I had a heart attack on Friday.”
 
It’s Monday.
 
I called him about an order we placed.
I’d never heard his voice before now.
It warms when he mentions home,
several thousand kilometers away.
 
(Not that he’s going back, or anything.)
It doesn’t flinch at “heart attack.”
He doesn’t mention the drawing closed
and throwing back open of his own life.
Just proofs and timelines. He says “we”
and I say “we” but really we mean
the respective entities that sponsor
our meals and our living. It’s Monday
and I try to express sorrow but it
clogs in me like anger. Someone
should give him the order to rest.
Someone should apologize for this.
 
Maybe me. Trying to build paper houses
for cardboard people. Trying to warm
a cold call. Reuse, recycle. At least
“we” kept using the outdated letterhead
and make sure to keep every scrap of
print. At least “we” care about me.
 
Together, we prune and water, hammer stakes.
Spreadsheets bud and then open, cell by cell,
unfurling and wrapping around. I weave blogs
into a blanket with a friendly but professional
pattern. He raises a roof of heavy email chains
that the rain washes down, leaving us dry.
 
And all of it is ours. Pronouns are important— 
it belongs to those who made it, to him and me.
 
But this is sad imagining. When I picture him sinking
into stillness, into unproductivity and just being because
we are beings, hey, we are miraculously fucking alive— 
it is me showing me mercy. In my mind, I strike
through this infernal contract with clever words.
Out there it sits in my own drawer, too. Out there
he’s going to keep working until next Friday,
and then it will have been a week, then two, then
an award for years of dedication and a gift card
for burgers and fries.
 
To soothe myself, I put on my black gloves
and on my lunch break dream the perfect heist.
 
A getaway on a fast horse, racing around tangled interchanges,
hooves cracking the asphalt, lungs bellowing, wrong exits, looping.

---

​E.S. Taillon (she/they) is a queer, neurodivergent writer based in Tkaronto. Their French-to-English translation of Scenes from the Underground was shortlisted for the Dayne Ogilvie Prize for LGBTQ2S+ Emerging Writers.