Love In the Ruins

[title from the poem of the same title by Jim Moore]

I remember when tables had tablecloths,
fancy ones kept folded in a drawer,
used only for special occasions,
one plain and serviceable
for every day.

I remember my Grandma's small living room,
with card tables set up for the ladies'
afternoons of bridge: tea in Baleek cups,
small, damp sandwiches. The women
wore hats and white gloves to the wrist.

I remember when ironing was a weekly chore,
when washing was hung out on the line
Monday before 8 a.m.,
and women compared the whiteness
and looked droll over the neighbour
who got her washing out late.
(I don't remember ever seeing
underwear on my Grandma's clothesline.
Underwear was unmentionable back then,
along with so much else.)

I remember when love lived
at my grandparents' house,
and the aunts and uncles were all
beautiful and glamourous,
coming out the door of
the little wartime cottage
in those days of apple orchards,
fresh-smelling mornings,
and sweet lake breezes.

I remember when love itself was in ruins,
my heart like a battered little boat,
trying to make its way to safety
across perilous seas.

I remember when love was a black wolf,
who had a toothy grin and made me laugh.
He is still love, ten years dead,
missed every day.

Right here, right now, covid is spiking again,
a thousand deaths in one day in the USA,
where masks have become a political issue,
instead of a means of
keeping each other safe.

Right here, right now,
on my tv screen,
goons in camoflauge,
sent by the President,
are yanking mothers off the street,
taking them away in unmarked cars.
Yes, I mean America; not a foreign country.

Right here, right now, our long-ago dreams
of peace and justice have long since died.
We're living in the ruins of our best hopes,
looking for leaders in a world gone mad.
We're hoping we'll survive.


Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner