How to Avoid the Living / Disaster Planning
by Rhienna Renèe Guedry
how to avoid the living
choose roads with potholes not filled with rain
switch sides, walk on sidewalks that buckle like
newspapers over the knees of great trees
commit to only looking forward
that obscure bus line, one that runs
infrequent service to abandoned office suites,
let it pass you by, stay on foot, maintain a distance
cross a highway by pedestrian overpass
count the cars going somewhere the drivers
will argue was selected with great care, watch for the
arrivals and departures woven like fishing line
each errand a smoke break, careless
your only comforts now are vacant spaces, sleep, and any
moment of quiet where you forget to worry about the air
this comfort is a grey, long pillowcase with a weave
you read something about once, your solitude is where
visitors come as a memories, the exchanges
courteous but ripe with sadness
man, all of this went on for so long without detection
so did the life we took for granted
Disaster Planning
I picked Oregon because I was tired of the floods and hurricanes and I didn’t pick California because they have their own problems. Dinnertime conversation veers on the edge of disaster preparedness, a quick lick at our heels, each respective phobia laid bare and pedantic. We each fear something larger than ourselves: an almost expected list of plane crash, fire, earthquake, outbreak. I think but don’t say, “a driver mowing through the front of our house,” an embellished fear born out of a news story of an early-morning drunk driver who took out a hedge of roses and the grandmother who had been weeding her garden beds. Cars always feel like weaponry to me. But instead, I say a house fire, which is also true. We each have our own list nagging thoughts; we all fret about our stoves combusting when we’re anxious about other things. Some demons you can plan for better than others, so we stick to natural-disaster planning--like this game called life is F-U-N. So let’s say it’s an earthquake. We’ll agree to swiftly push the dining room table towards one interior wall. We’ll each get a table leg to wrap our entire large bodies around like a koala. If I don’t shit myself first, I’d like to grab my motorcycle helmet from the mantle, then the papillon. I’ll put on the helmet. There are three other koalas in the room. We each clutch our branch, we each tell something we love, and it goes like this long enough for the shaking to stop.
Rhienna Renèe Guedry is a Louisiana-born writer and artist who found her way to the Pacific Northwest, perhaps solely to get use of her vintage outerwear collection. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in Empty Mirror, Bitch Magazine, Screen Door, Scalawag Magazine, Taking the Lane, and elsewhere on the internet. Find more about her projects at rhienna.com or @chouchoot on Twitter.
