Excerpt of "How to spend the nth day in bed" by Samantha Jones

Content note: chronic illness and pain

Choose the bed by the window,
stack at least four pillows,
prop my head up to achieve the view:
A tree full of sparrows,
magpies hop across blacktop,
haggle over toast.
Each spindly foot a clasp
set around its treasure.
Brisk black squirrels run
between utility poles,
the post carrier unloads a grey crate,
my homebody syzygy —
garage roof, mailbox moon, parking attendant rising.

 

Leave every online health quiz unopened.
Hold onto the words everyone shrugs off
as phosphenes that will resolve themselves
when I ease the pressure.
It’s that easy, they promise,
as if saying it
makes it so.

 

Draw a line on the wall,
demarcate the horizon
that I lie below.
Come up with a name
for the zone I inhabit,
greet my benthic neighbours,
search for their fuzzy backs
with one outstretched hand,
show them where
the lunch crumbs are. 

 

Ignore the circle of family and friends
quilting my eulogy, performing
in front of me over and over,
even though I’m still right here,
I just can’t move like I used to,
their cherished memories
ordered by value, look at me there,
wearing a beautiful dress, cured,
window shopping in the streets, as if
I’d waste my precious time
if I could have it back. 

 

— Samantha Jones is an earth scientist, writer, and editor based in Moh'kins'tsis (Calgary), Treaty 7 territory. Her words appear in THIS, Grain, CV2, Room, GeoHumanities, and elsewhere. Sam’s visual poetry chapbook, Site Orientation, was published by the Blasted Tree and her poetry collection, Attic Rain, is available from NeWest Press.

 

You can read this poem along with Samantha Jones other poem "Low Tide" in Issue 301 Autumn 2024. Order the issue now:

Order Issue 301 - Autumn 2024 (Canadian Addresses)

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