Sweet soil

“Plenty of forest land, go out there, dig a hole, sit in it and do a double dose of fentanyl and a Bobcat will come along and fill in the hole and we can start all over again.”

–Facebook comment published on a CBC Vancouver story titled “Why fentanyl is so deadly” (September 17, 2016)

3.

I dig a hole in the forest with Grandma’s garden spade. I sit in it and wait for a Bobcat to spill sweet soil over my blistered hands, over my swollen body. Chickadees chirp, oaks creak, but no machine arrives. Instead, a Lynx rufus does. Golden eyes, ears tipped with black trophies, the cat paws soil into the hole. Tongue stretched, I catch the falling earth and taste insects who will soon nibble my skin.

2.

Grandma’s garden: coneflower, ninebark, cranesbill. Their roots quiver from my footsteps. The air, tickling my neck with ladybug legs, smells purple. In the green compost bin lies half-chewed perogies. I can’t stomach food or shame, but my leftovers will breed life. Beside the pipe-smoking gnome, a spade.

1.

In the kitchen, we sit in the silence of my scrolling. I know you’re high, Grandma says, but you have to eat. I accept her offer of cheddar perogies. Who am I to say no? The recipe has survived diphtheria and droughts.

The pumpkin pie recipe pinned to the fridge

Inside the cutlery drawer, drama
transpires. A tiny spoon is stuck
under a stack of big spoons,
and I’m the antagonist
who won’t move it back
beside the wooden chopsticks.
Cigarette smoke pours
through the range hood.
In an alternate reality, I slam
my fists against my apartment
neighbour’s door, tell him
to stop feeding me
his lung cancer. In this reality,
I cough six times before inhaling
a doughnut. At Main and Hastings,
a short walk away, fellow humans
exist without cutlery drawers.
Crackheads. Junkies. Tweaks.
I see tiny spoons stuck
under big spoons, antagonists
disguised as skyscrapers.
Once, I shot coke
in my bedroom
while Grandma cooked
cabbage rolls in the kitchen.
After my rush faded,
we ate like equals.

Dreaming

A world where young men shoot
love into the air like dandelions
and it’s called masculinity.

A world where young men shoot
heroin, where families respond
with dandelions
and it’s not called enabling.

This world smells like peanut butter
cookies and no one is shamed
for finding comfort
in the domestic.

This world recognizes in its laws
the varying responses to pain: cocaine,
cookies, watching infomercials
with the sound off.

Also recognized: treatment options
devoid of sin confession and saviors.
Treatment like a society that cares
about those who shoot and inhale
and love and survive.

Harm reduction so enshrined
it’s called dignity.

Dignity so enshrined
people promote cookie recipes
in the comment section
instead of eugenics.

A world where people aren’t criminalized
for pain responses but rather sentenced
to a week with Grandma. Conditions
of release include watching reruns
of America’s Funniest Home Videos
and laughing over plates
of mushroom porkchops.