Claire Scott

Lysander, et al

Claire Scott

Have you heard of Lysander he asks me I nod sagely, not caring the slightest bit about Lysander not wanting to know whether Lysander is a fish or chocolate dessert or a city in Mali or a contagious disease wondering if this is a mark of old age, this not caring, this lack of curiosity wondering if this should be a question on cognitive tests for those of us who have slipped quietly past seventy do you say I know all about the Violin beetle when you have never heard of it

This slamming of windows and doors this shutting out the unknown as though it were a virus or a vampire or a dastardly villain from a second rate soap opera but my basement is bursting with highchairs, tricycles, soccer cleats, luggage, year books and encyclopedias time to pare down like potato skins or better yet settle in with another bottle of brandy

When they find my body blottoed in bed maybe starting to stink like Liederkranz cheese they will find slews of unopened words scattered like Lego blocks or sprinkles on a birthday cake or birdseed for sparrows who have lost their song Wobbegong, Tuvalu, Diplodocus, Muon, Aghori gather them up and give them to the younger folk whose houses still have plenty of room

Sisyphus Pushes a Rock Up a Hill in Hades

Claire Scott

Why would we need Camus to tell us that Sisyphus is happy?

Why wouldn’t he be? He has almost no responsibility. No bleary-eyed insomnia worried about affording Adidas sneakers for his kids, so they won’t need costly therapy for fractured self esteem. No five hundred dollar Comcast bill for a WiFi that spits and sputters during Zoom calls with his cantankerous boss. No Prius needing a four thousand dollar battery in order to schlep the kids to school, to soccer, to Spanish, to swim. Precisely the same four thousand saved for a laid-back summer on the beaches of Cape Cod. Sisyphus is never gobsmacked with surprises. No gophers digging up his peonies and petunias. Nothing like my son’s report card dotted with D’s. Nothing like the doctor frowning at the shadow on my MRI. Every day dittos the one before. No meals to plan, please no chicken again, I hate tofu, Talia’s mother buys Captain Crunch. His rock steadfast and stable. It doesn’t grow nose hairs and a flabby belly. It doesn’t suddenly develop an interest in learning Latin on Tuesday nights.

Today I resigned. I simply resigned. Left a note on the table. Gone Straight to Hell.

And drove to Home Depot to pick out the perfect rock.

Claire Scott is an award winning poet in Oakland, California who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has been accepted by the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review, Enizagam and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t. She is the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.