It’s Saturday, and we’re going shopping – doing some initial scouting, really – for a new living room set later this afternoon. The loveseat and the big, blue comfy chair have reached the ends of their respective lines; they need replacement, soon. Basically now.
Sure, they’re well over ten years old: they’ve survived (among other things) a divorce, a few moves (across campuses, the Maritimes), a toddler (mostly), one dog, a cat, a few spilled drinks, a few more drunken evenings, a number of unfortunate poutine-, donair- and/or nacho-related incidents, and even a few substantial cleanings. What they’ve finally succumbed to, however, is a very insistently chewy new puppy: a little monster whose name is actually ‘Monster’.
She’s adorable and cuddly and curious and a bit of a rambunctious terror. She also loves eating the old loveseat and the big blue chair, not to mention the myriad iron-on patches and stitches that’ve been involved in trying to hold these two blue microfibred hunks together for the last few months.
All this, of course, is a sort of poetry.
A while ago, I wrote a poem about Rico (our other dog), that centred around sleep and dreams (and the odd bit of gas). That suited his personality quite well, to my mind. Monster’s new poem, it turns out, is more about the systematic destruction of decades-old furniture. And both poems, despite their different conceits and imagery, are about love.
MONSTER & THE BIG BLUE CHAIR
…like shreds, tatters of summer – it does not feel
as if this could be the whole story.
– Robyn Sarah
it doesn’t feel as if this – love – could be
the whole story. this is
a breathy, nascent ardour, certainly; is love
as loyal, paw-clumsy feralty;
as furry wooden horse become a ruined racket
of new-gnawed table legs & slobber-
threshed once-cushions flung; as eye-toothed heresy
done books or unlucky jackets
or any other thing held dear & left
unsuspecting, exposed or low, now wrung. love
as what we thought we’d adored – collected, shelved,
secured – now left bereft:
our days’ patchwork all tickertaped – like shreds,
tatters of a summer’s celebrations; haphazard triage of seam & seeming.
this is love – finally – as pause, a hurricane becalmed;
a small, dark wonder bundled – still – there at the bed’s far edge.