Bramah and the Beggar Boy
Page 12
Aunty Agatha Tells Abigail About the Before-Time
Outside Perimeter, huge gates, gold tipped.
We could tour their Mansions on Special Days.
Inside Rentalsman, we crammed twelve to a room.
Banned from assembly, we gathered at night.
We travelled transit to clean their houses.
We knew to remove our shoes, their front doors.
Everything we had, we made for ourselves.
Feet shod, heels worn, for sure, not rags, not yet,
toe tops scuffed. Anything soiled we took off.
Everyone scoffed at us. We just looked down.
We knew to clean them fur skins for the rich.
Well, what animals? they asked: texts sent fast.
We stitched and patched our garbage clothes, spoke soft.
On the mend, On the mend, screamed our children
from Tower Juniper, they sidelined us.
After the Second Great Banning, edicts
following quick, one after the other.
Still we gathered outside the iron gate,
Consortium approved such get-(a)ways—
What a laugh we said, in line to see
long buses deposited, a Family Day
touring to the gates, careful with our masks.
Oh, to be Conductor, a plum job!
Oh, peering into, between, faces pressed,
wrought iron and elaborate,
gold tips sharp, Consortium commissioned
sturdy locks handmade by Bramah herself.
We tracked down every rumour just to see
what day would she arrive, how to call her?
Behind bars, their verdant vegetables grew
such mellow fruitfulness, our hands trembled:
We lined up in Touring Season to see
their waterworks, their lush seedlings, ripe vines.
On the bus ride home, our children chattered
such red delight, we knew what mattered.
Everything came tiered in those days,
Tours to command higher prices.
Them who did barter butter, for eggs,
Allotment Dairies, never seen, perhaps a myth,
them that said, them that paid.
Where houses on large lots, double spread
we stood, mute, eyes downcast, cold, hands outstretched.
Those Gold-Banded passports permitted us
two hours, maximum, our children played:
Come Bramah, find us with your lock and key!
And one hot afternoon a small child ran
bones elided in that way of the times.
He slipped through iron, nimble, sure-footed
a tower child, his hair curly and black,
Vancouver Special, he cried,
having been taught the words in Tower Juniper.
Vancouver Special,
his voice echoed out over the Assembly.
Some said he were the Beggar Boy of Bramah.
Some said, his hair were fiery red.
Others just laughed and coughed,
their masks ripped and torn.
Aunty Agatha and the Parchment Fragment
Your mother sent me this printout, ripped, stained:
smoke concentrations may vary across
for information purposes only
pulled, viral vectors non-replicating
fine particulate matter, PM2
.5, airborne, solid or liquid, dropped
encapsulated, disclaimed landscapes
ground-level ozone, mid-afternoon winds
blowing up all along Pacifica
recombinant full-length protein strands, spiked
9-1-1 lines cut down, nowhere to hide
spring brought us sickness, summer ends burning
my microscope pieces confiscated
Outside, ragged Beggar Boys chant and laugh:
Find her chalice, don’t have malice, jump, jump!
These Charts Your Mother Sent to Me
By the order of Consortium
Release Date: withdrawn
Abstract: unavailable
Objective, participants, methods: closed.
Life Expectancy
In the year 2020
Female
Inside Perimeter
78 (in years)
In the year 2030
ibid.
ibid.
unknown
In the year 2040
ibid.
ibid.
unavailable
In the year 2050
ibid.
ibid.
35 (in years)
Aunty Agatha Gives Abigail a Letter
Said Aunty Agatha to Abigail
Your mother sent this to me before she——
She kept it always tucked inside a book
She said it were from–—her own mother, look:
From a Daughter to Her Mother
Inside Rentalsman, your body curved
in old flannel, blue-red stripes, soft cotton.
You carried cargo; a sister unknown.
Scolded, I ran away from you, upstairs.
Don’t do that, put those away, clean your room.
All your words collided in your sigh. I
stuck out my tongue and ran up, up the stairs.
Slam! My white door shut, and you lumbered up.
Slam! Did you shake your head, I could not see.
I raced to my desk, pulled tape and paper
my brown fingers said, Hurry, hurry. Your
voice called my name and up the stairs wavered.
I can hear you in there! and up your gait
heavy on the steps. And behind the door
I used paper you had bought me. Scrawling,
a pencil from the twelve-pack Laurentien,
aquamarine, these gifts from you. Not-with-
standing. I wrote my message. You didn’t
knock. Just paused. To catch your breath.
I heard it. In a rhythm in and out and I wrote
in a hurry. Hurry. But you needed the washroom,
and then: Slam! Click! Shut. Two doors
at the top of those old manse stairs. Yellow
and white house. You in the bathroom, peeing.
Me on the landing. I, a young Luther,
nailing my thesis. Aquamarine words
taped to my bedroom door. Slam! I hat you.
And you read out loud: Oh, you’ve missed an e!
Now come to tea. Downstairs in the kitchen,
saucers and cups, porcelain parts, rattle.
Upstairs, my white door creaks. My handiwork
surveyed. That piece of paper, I hat you!
over and over the years folded, creased.
I have smoothed out that note; up the downstairs
mother, daughter, little sister, we hold
then let go, words, smiling. Aquamarine.
The Keepsake
And here is something your mother wrote at school.
Consortium-approved, she studied hard.
As submitted: Abigail Ellen Anderson
Grade received: pass
Who said, Write this way?
The teacher to the student.
Who said, I can’t, I won’t?
That’s what the child said
when she stormed upstairs.
You wrote, I’ll not be taught.
I sang, Not for long.
We walked to our school’s front door.
You read in class aloud.
I scrubbed, head down.
We slept with arms crossed
You tossed and tur
ned and then
when I asked for dreams
you replied, I’ll write it green,
and so we did till the end of time.
Abigail said, Okay, I might keep this—
Hologram Message of Dr. A.E. Anderson to Her Adopted Daughter, Abigail
I will be
so silent
I will be
that space
hidden
in stone,
quarried deep,
found
forgotten, discarded
found again
the stone,
thumb to forefinger—
inverted, the stone
tossed to ground water
ancient well,
hidden in a forest
the stone, igneous rock
spirals and turns
deep and drop
deep and drop, I will be
the quiet
of a forest
outside the gates
citadel city oblivious
to pine needles—
flesh of animals
after fire and ash
wind swept,
churned
still, still
I will be
the morning
long after
an ambulance cries
close, closer
this devastation:
a heart explodes,
blood in microseconds
blood without
defibrillator,
without another hand
to touch, I will be
that quiet
in the absence
just after
unseen, unfelt,
but still present,
in a hospital
in a morgue,
in an upstairs bedroom,
in a library, an office
an office
where in silence
I will etch
parchment
fingertip to stretched skin,
I will fade
with each surface breath,
brushing time,
time, deboned,
reimagined, the city
to those outer precincts
a skeleton found
outside the well,
outside the forest,
in mountains that loom at first far away
then close, closer
where the city breeds noise
but contains
dry silences
where a bird sings
liquid
two notes
dropped into morning
ice in the face of a sun
such melting, a space
and I will hang
in those pauses—
incomplete but ready
fragment of melody
singed, corroded,
punctured, long gone,
forgotten, remembered
I will be
so silent
settled along the riverbank
city with its back
to the ocean,
at night
a storefront
illumines garbage containers,
a lone seagull’s
raucous appetency
Feed me, feed me,
I will be
that silent—
unending night
long after a bridge
collapses,
after tenements
tumble
water
at the water’s edge
the tide carries
stillness at the edge
of sound
edged with want
lap, lap, lap
water’s rhythm
layered over
earth’s shudder
under the water
stagnant
the well,
fathomless
forest floor braided,
extended into
the city I will be—
ever-present
a sounding line and echo
and echo, long after you’ve vacated
any office tower,
rooms emptied:
files, papers, pens,
long after
the last goodbye
staff dismissed,
long after
you’ve packed boxes,
carted, hauled, lifted,
unplugged phones,
laptop folded in half,
cellphone snapped together
shut
shut
a borrowed device,
number now defunct—
long after
you’ve driven off
licence plate
unknown,
home number
unlisted,
long after
you have departed
I will
be that
lonesome
ride on the road
alongside the river
where vibrations
linger east, west,
the street
more deserted,
more silent
than the emptiness drawn
from silence, full
and empty, full
and empty, I will be
that silence always
waiting and the only way
out.
Abigail Abandons the Farm
By the hearth Aunty Agatha, her lips pressed tight.
One tear rolled down her cheek.
Down the chimney of the hearth, a thin wisp of wind.
Abigail, her eyes downcast, stirred embers with a stick.
Said Abigail to Aunty Agatha,
Well, anyway, I’m adopted so–—you
can keep that long letter. Thanks for sharing.
Child, child, said Aunty Agatha, always
a good thing to know about the Before.
Said Abigail to Aunty Agatha,
Oh, Aunty Agatha, that’s all gone now.
And with these words, Abigail of the farm
packed her bags and headed to the Fifth Gate.
Her beauty legendary, healing skills
useful. She made a living, turned her back
on fate, met a handsome Guard, hitched a ride:
transport planes running late. With Abigail
supplies never lost. No Guard smart enough
to hold her hand for long. Some said she knew
a thousand spells, some said she harboured hate:
she rarely spoke, she always drank and danced
gone by sunrise, with gold in her pockets
no matter the place, she’d dream of the well:
Making my wishes, Ma, never you tell.
The Adventures of Abigail
Abigail Up Against Consortium Everywhere She Went
In every pulsing place she saw their work
towers, prisons, agro farms without grace
Behind Perimeter, their tanks to crush
the children of migrants kneeling in dust
She learned to steal and trade secrets, her wiles,
quick-witted beauty, no one she could trust.
Purveyor of the artful dodge she missed
getting caught by a hair’s breadth, just in time—
Never mind who doesn’t make it, she laughed.
Wire me and we can fake it,
her sideways smile, her lips lifted in scorn.
It were the year twenty-seventy-five.
Abigail Accidentally Falls into a Before-Time Portal
i.
You white, dull-eyed, tube-bodied
eyeliner, gloss wearing low-rider
of trains and buses. You scorn walkers.
Fingernails bubble-gum pink or cherry black
chipped, grasper of small devices
emitting noise. Chatterer. You twitch
twitch in time to sound plugged into
ears
tiny on your smooth head, hair dyed orange.
Tight jeans puddle narrow on your ankles
your belly rises pierced with one, two
small rings. You talk, chew, whisper
oblivious to others yet staged this drama
of indifference. A settled calm descends
on your snub features when you see me: silence.
ii.
OMG! You are so old. You suck. What? WTF!
I don’t get you. Whatever. Your clothes smell.
What’s with that white shirt tucked in?
I’m so excited I’m going to that concert, Tina.
Hey Devon. Get off at Metrotown, okay? OMG!
That’s so cool. Did you really? I’m buying one too.
Yeah. Which? No Way. How come? Text me.
What? No. Later. Gotto go, gotta run. Yeah.
I touch my waist; then my hair under your blank stare.
Your mouth opens—a fish-maw. Some stubby energy
chews up the air around your head. The phone
a silver square. Soon you’ll turn your back to me, your body
at peace in its own rhythm and I can recede
shoulders made square by your forgetting.
Abigail in Paris
She knew how to travel invisible (translated from the French):
Outside the church, firebombed, Guards with guns.
Aided by drones, surveillance always on.
Abigail known far and wide as healer
midwife’s helper, comfrey packets, potions.
In the Arrondissement:
those beggar children of St. Médard, called:
Abigail, Abigail
Sur le Pont
Abigail Abigail
Un coup de dés
jamais jamais
Outside on the streets, where resisters roamed.
She knew how to be in the world watching—