for M
I. Between Intubation and The End
Mortality is a tech bro
on the lowest rung.
He’s so sure he’s
upward bound
he’ll fight fierce as ice –
all trickle into cracks,
crumbling the earth
with expansion, same
as sear to the touch –
to preserve the ladder.
Mortality has been shit on
for so long. He has stayed
meek for self-preservation
in the presence of bigger teeth.
No one weighs their hungers
against their ambitions but
he is ravenous. Mortality
goes to leadership workshops
says his biggest goal is to learn
to be brutally honest
with everyone. Mortality is
sure he’s the victim here.
Mortality wants to be a god,
not for benevolence or power,
but how easy it is to tally
& quantify worshippers.
What they will sacrifice
& grieve. Mortality can’t
untangle torment and love.
If I am full of rage & leaking
tears, it’s because I learned
to make your terrible
pumpkin muffins just so,
so they could outlive you.
Cinnamon, no nutmeg.
Too little butter for the crumb.
What if your son refuses
to eat so long out of grief
he forgets how they are
supposed to taste? Well,
Mortality got his, so fuck you.
II. Survivor’s Guilt
The more people you
lose in this life the more
your waking is a daily
apology for telling such
a thin and stretched out
story, all these threads
missing. How lush
& oversaturated the rug
must be in the parlor, the next
room over, no way to lay
a foot on the pile. I sat
with some bees who
reminded me an entire life
can leave less than a teaspoon
of honey. I do my chores
in the kitchen, wiping
down the granite a second
time with a new rag. The shine
on the counters is garish
but that’s just how
the afternoon light happens
in this house. M is finishing
her dying, two timezones
away. When I moved away
a month ago, we said
our goodbyes. Over the phone.
She didn’t say what
she knew, but I knew it
too. We were not face to face
when I said. I loved
being young with you.
I tied out all my loose
ends and left. She thought
she would have more time.
The past tense can be
a blade that opens
a wound that won’t be felt
until the wet drops hit
your skin, the liquid of your
interrupted pulse spilling after
the shock fades.
Shana Ross is a recent transplant to Edmonton, Alberta and Treaty Six Territory. Qui transtulit sustinet. Her work has recently appeared in Cutbank Literary Journal, Laurel Review, Gigantic Sequins, Meetinghouse Magazine and more. She is the winner of the 2022 Anne C. Barnhill prize and the 2021 Bacopa Literary Review Poetry competition, as well as a 2019 Parent-Writer Fellowship to Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. She serves as an editor for Luna Station Quarterly and a critic for Pencilhouse. She rarely tweets @shanakatzross.