Claire Scott

GROWNUP GODS

Myths are stories we tell each other to make living tolerable.
          Martyr by Kaveh Akbar

The grownup gods aren’t working out. Some on sabbatical
some lounging on the beaches of Bali,
sick of the stacks of pleas from worshippers
who no longer sing alleluias.
Sick of cold ashes at deserted temples.

Some other gods seem to simply be losing it,
maybe in need of a hit of Aricept, sending
a red wagon instead of a crimson Tesla.
But no matter where or how or why, the flawed-up gods
need to take down their shingles and step aside.

Instead, let’s check out the gods of our childhood,
Santa Claus, the Easter bunny, the tooth fairy.
A stocking with candy canes and toy trucks,
a basket of colored eggs and jelly beans,
a dime or a quarter under a pillow.

Those were the gods we believed in.
We didn’t need proof or miracles
They didn’t need our applause or hymns of praise.
Let’s all pray to Santa to skip chimneys
and scatter peace instead of presents.

Let’s pray to the Easter bunny to bring food,
real food not Marshmallow Peeps and pray
to the tooth fairy to leave enough euros,
rupees or pounds under pillows
so every person has a safe place to sleep.

Perhaps this trio is a myth.
Perhaps they can’t do the job.
But let’s give them a try,
since nothing else is working out
in this worn and wheezing world.

AFTER FIFTY YEARS

The dull devotion of the long-married
worn down like our sanded porch
or the paring knives in our kitchen
that hardly cut our apple-a-day
living like wind-up dolls
each day dittoing the one before
tea/walk/lunch/nap/read/supper/sleep
repeat
hours stitched by ritual, staving off emptiness
the swindle of oblivion

Sometimes a film at night
living other people’s lives
oh, let’s go to Provence I breezily suggest
after watching Cezanne et Moi
itinerary/tickets/airports/hotels/
taxis and trains/lost passports /food poisoning
how pack our CPAP machines
our blood pressure machines
our water pics and special pillows
you on a cane, unsteady

me lost on the way to Lucky
calling Lyft to guide me home
bottles and bones of the past wash up
wreckage or wonder?
the high water rising
murky with memory
are we rising too?
do we want to ignite the flames that warmed us
when we danced the wild alphabet of desire
all hips and hopes
or are the embers enough?

Claire Scott is an award-winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review and Healing Muse among other journals. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t. She is the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.