Days
of ‘22
by Jake Sheff
Nothing big is
good, but the Red Cross Blood
Donation Center
might be reality’s dissent.
On Thursday
morning, I found myself inside
Its dizzying array
of meekness and penitence,
A form of diarchy
that was much-maligned
By the nauseous
wind outside. A side effect
Of too much hope
and fear, rather than trusting
In HaShem, I found
my veins were confusing
Freed with greed.
My cordiform apology could
Not expunge the
nurse’s maleness: his needle
Whispered Let
me do my job as it was sliding in.
Shit happens;
history wouldn’t want it any
Other way. The
Marlboro Man was telling me
That the urge to
kneel is a symptom of burnout;
You gotta serve
nobody. Outwardly, I agreed,
Because I wanted
him to think me smart while
He was still my
flesh wound’s keeper. Snoozin’
Susan, in the bed
behind me, made a fool of
Everyone by
playing peek-a-boo with dreams.
Pity lets a piglet
govern men; it was like seeing
One or two guppies
wrangling sharks, only
Even more
backasswards! I sat and ate some
Cheese crackers—whose
love was no excipient —
And drank them
down with juice and pride.
For potability,
nothing comes close to pride.
The sanctity of
free T-shirts had risen naturally
In proportion to
the scarcity of blood donors,
But mine broke the
first rule of being charming:
Never tell them
everything. At home, I found
A sleeping
boulder: a bulldog puppy, who turned
Into a four-legged
neutron star. I guess I’m
Addicted to
self-inflicted, therapeutic trauma,
Since she bowled
me over, and I wouldn’t have
Had it any other
way. Something was off about
The following day;
I can’t put my finger on it.
A vehement sunrise
spoke in amphibologies.
The rowdy seconds
of unfeeling hours produced
Two clouds that
went floating overhead like
A pair of
slippers. Their quietly popular land
Of opportunity
will never hear the end of it.
The taste of time—a
saucy herbalist—awoke
In me the love of
pleasure and the love of action.
The counterculture
aimed its .22 at any thoughts
I had of
malversation. Two more big ideas
Were growing, each
like a tumor, in the morning
Light; its blood,
brain, and bone. I went to ski
Mt Hood, where
even on craptastic snow,
The mean, median,
and mode all sound like liars.
I need not explain
that values are gods, gods
Values, and if you
wish to understand a man’s
Behavior, look no
further than what gods he
Talks to; before I
left, my daughter consulted her
Mood ring, to know
what mood she was in,
Then insisted I be
careful, and have fun. My
Heart’s sincerity
is never in doubt, nor is it
Insurmountable; it
said, She is her father’s child.
Those who believe
that distant doesn’t mean
Distinct, will
eagerly listen to a long national
Hissy fit, which
has dissembled the virtues of
Whipping boys,
exaggerated their turn radii,
And condemned with
rigor the grouchy ways
They imitate the
Gracchi; roughly speaking
And in the best of
cases, they will drag us each by
The tragus, these
litigious and irreligious types,
Who make of hope
and fear a Ruger—a most
Credulous Ruger, I
might add; the opposite of
Wide awake—as if
we’d ever want to change our
Minds. (The
irreligious always join the new
Religions. For
sober eyes, don’t make a god
Of anything.) I
was thinking about this, as I
Was riding on the
ski lift next to Alex. He
Watched as the
color marched catawampus
From my face. A
blizzard of bizarre competing
Interests floated
in my vision, like a sort of
Living harmony,
like mermaids all with
Emerald scales.
Alex said, “You cannot . . .”
Cannot: the word
that like a cannon smarts.
It’s said that
humans have understanding, but
Standing under
what?
is only asked by
children.
Alex sat by my bed
as I was getting IV fluids
And a ha’porth of
sense back. By arguments
And garments
warmed, I left the slopes, where
I’d been the day’s
Snoozin’ Susan, and my
Almost broken
spine was almost my personal
Baruch Spinoza.
The hard-won blessing of lunch
With my friend was
enjoyed, and I gave thanks
For my piece of
plenty. “Plenty and peace breed
Cowards,” said
Alex, looking just like he was
Quoting something,
something more high-
Throughput than
heaven and time combined.
That night allowed
what swallowed to be
Swallowed; grief,
that is. I asked my sleep
To get it over
with, but woke the following
Day with
outrageous joy. The smell of babka
And the anger of
an angry wife enveloped me.
“It was dangerous
to trust the sincerity of your
Confidence,” she
said. Said I, “But to seem to
Distrust it, why
that’s more dangerous still,
My sweet.” To all
of our east-facing window
Plants, the
morning was howling mellifluously.
On a Saturday like
that, it is all one whether
We see the sun
rise or feel it. “You always
Want to change
another’s mind, but not your
Own,” my wife
complained. “Some ordinary
People have a hard
time identifying as such,”
The TV added, as
if to console one of us.
2022 was firing a
.22 in the distance. I told
My cat, “You can’t
grow old, you’re my best
Friend,” but then,
I turned to aging and said,
“Just get on with
it.” My weathered spirit—
Weathered stern to
bow—was drifting on
The Black Sea of
my Covid recovery, so I
Brewed some fresh
black tea and swore
I wouldn’t touch a
drop of alcohol at Johanna’s
Birthday party.
Some bowling balls hit harder
Than Gog and Magog
on two-legged horses;
The mind, and
other social constructs, interfered
With my ability to
roll a strike that day. Sub-
Variants of
Omicron and humor filled the air;
You know it, I
know it, and the February sexless
Rain outside knows
it,
the arcade
seemed to say.
Something touched
the afternoon’s McBurney’s
Point just as cake
was being served. Troy, who
Would’ve plundered
the Alani’s land in days
Of 22 BC, was
singing “Happy Birthday” in
The style of
Alanis Morrisette to benefit mankind.
Jake Sheff is a
pediatrician and veteran of the U.S. Air Force. He's married with a daughter
and a crazy bulldog. Poems and short stories of Jake’s have been published
widely. A full-length collection of formal poetry, A Kiss to Betray
the Universe, is available from White Violet Press. He also has two
chapbooks: Looting Versailles (Alabaster Leaves Publishing) and The
Rites of Tires (SurVision).
