I have been to the market
where they sell futures packed in mason jars
tidy and transparent, displayed in overwhelming
abundance. A tiny stall in the maze of crafts
and comestibles. Easy to pass by. You have to ask
the salesclerk to lift the wares down from backlit shelves;
even if you can reach them, there are signs – hand lettered
you’re not supposed to browse on your own. She
(or very occasionally he) will place the container
carefully on the counter so you can examine it,
turn it over and over in your hands to try and see all
all it contains, but things inside keep twisting.
You can’t see everything, even through clear
glass. The clerk is in no hurry, or at least, she
is much less concerned than you are about
the flickering and shrinking of options
as time passes, and you, worrying the coins
in your pocket. There are only so many futures
she will sell you. When I was in the market
my fingers passed through half the jars
on the shelves. Oh, the illusion of choice.
We have will, but it’s not free. There’s a price
sticker on every future and once you’ve been
to this market, you come to terms with
quietly knowing: what you won’t pay.
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Shana Ross is a newcomer to Edmonton, Alberta and Treaty 6 Territory. Qui transtulit sustinet. A Rhysling-nominated poet, her work can be found in Augur, The Deadlands, Small Wonders, Strange Horizons, and more. She is two years into a project of befriending the neighborhood magpies. Just in case. |