by Susi Lovell
my feet follow the path, my boots unwilling.
I regret the incident on the yacht. I agree
to toggle pride. I forget—a problem of age. I regret
my age, a grim milestone. Also the photo I couldn’t
forget, the one with the boa. I regret the horse.
It was so huge and fierce with such long
yellow teeth, I felt tiny and timid.
I regret the yacht, the horse, the boa. My
unwilling boots groan as I set them on the path.
At my age, I thought. Armed with boots, boa, age, I set out on the path.
Regret is a treat, the luxury of thinking there are
other possibilities. Regret is a yacht, a luminous boat
of pride, the assumption one could have done better.
Regret is a photo left in the bottom drawer of the tallboy
beneath the old duvets, moth eaten
and musty, next to the bow tie that made him
look the cat’s whiskers. Regret is a groan
of recognition—failed
again.
Regret is the uncertain terrain
of the fens, mosquito infested, full of the
sulphurous smell of decomposed sphagnum. Regret is toggling
what was with what is and trying to weasel out
of what you’ve become.
Regret is a feather boa floating around your neck (the bird, the bird…. that dawn,
the emu, the bird that can’t fly, flying long-legged across the red-lit
red sands of the Nullabor Desert.) Regret is age, an unfortunate
fact when it’s too late to rewrite what’s been written.
Regret is rue, the woody yellow-flowered
ruta graveolens of evil smell and bitter taste,
perennial, invasive, but beneficial
for headaches, arthritis, fevers
of heart. Rue—herb-of-grace.
Unsafe in large doses.
Originally from England, Susi Lovell worked her way around the world before settling in Montreal. A movement artist-educator, choreographer and past dance critic for the Montreal Gazette, Susi’s stories have appeared in The New Quarterly, Stand Magazine, carte blanche, Grain, Fiddlehead and other journals.
Headlight Anthology 