by Shloka Shankar
Paquerette
I wonder if this is how you thought your life would go:
Forced to quit smoking cold turkey when you were no longer able to buy the contraband. We knew all along. You had one daughter and three sons who had three sons and one daughter. Two moved away; one came back when her husband died. The other died a husband with three sons.
I wonder about your boss:
Everyone said you were his best, his favorite. He famously dropped money in your name, sent gifts, even paid the bill for your husband’s funeral reception. I wonder exactly how he loved you and whether he was inordinately kind, or a stalker.
I wonder when you noticed:
You left the door unlocked. You fed me even when I did not know I was empty. You kept offering, quietly, consistently even though I had been told not to accept that which I hadn’t earned.
I wonder about your secret name:
Every return address included your middle initial. I was thirty before I knew the P stood for Paquerette. Daisy. How you must have been admired somewhere before I knew you, bright as the face of a flower.
I wonder when I can see your grave:
Once it’s safe to cross state lines, I will visit it alone. I will remember your sly smile when my daughter’s school picture was given the center spot on the fridge because, like me, you always loved the girls best.
Simple Ritual
There is a simple ritual to contact the dead:
You will need the return address from a card they mailed you
though in a pinch your name in their handwriting is enough.
You will need something ugly they gave you that you nevertheless kept.
Intergenerational trauma is best but a curse you still remember in their voice will suffice.
You will need a large orange
and an old birdhouse
and a stained coffee cup.
You won’t even need to use any blood if you have a pair of acrylic frame glasses.
Put them on.
You will need to hold the question clearly in your mind. They will not show up for a chat.
If you want to save yourself the time, the answer is usually yes. Were they sorry? Did they mean it? Are they at rest?
Did they love you?
Yes, you look so much like her, wearing those glasses.
Jerica Taylor is a non-binary neurodivergent queer cook, birder, and chicken herder. Their work has appeared in Dream Journal, Stone of Madness, FERAL, and perhappened. She lives with her wife and young daughter in Western Massachusetts. Twitter @jericatruly
Shloka Shankar is a freelance writer and visual artist from Bangalore, India. She enjoys experimenting with Japanese short-forms and myriad found poetry techniques alike. A Best of the Net nominee and award-winning haiku poet, her poems and artwork have most recently appeared in Hedgerow, Modern Haiku, Heliosparrow, Kissing Dynamite, and Burning House Press among others. Shloka is the founding editor of the literary & arts journal Sonic Boom, its imprint Yavanika Press, as well as Senior Editor for Human/Kind Journal.