by Julie Triganne

Circling the grocery store aisles.
We move like a slow moon settling.
 
Under retail lighting we tell ourselves
to buy discount, or that it’s okay to indulge
 
in premium peanut butter, pre-cut vegetables.
Caramel pecan ice cream. 
 
The week ordered by expiry dates.
Consider what curdles.
 
Nerves run blue at day’s end. 
Judicial, the way you raise an eyebrow.
 
My intentions are good.
If I fail you, let’s call it poor planning.
 
In the checkout line we debate
amounts due, credit card balances.
 
What we owe is incalculable, without origin.
Our life, sutured with conditions.
 
Unprepared to rid ourselves of the things
that affix to us, demand allegiance:
 
our deliveries, our liabilities.
Our Bluetooth tracker‐clad suitcases.
 
Indulgence burrows in our jowls.
I rack up debt and blame my childhood.
 
Having learned one can in fact purchase contentment.
That a nice shirt will sometimes suffice.
 
Once, I ate from your palm. Stood next to you,
enamoured in a parking lot. Judged no one.
 
That’s what love is. Temperature swings, ice
breaking on the river. Thuds that imitate a whale call.

Years falter. They’re not to be trusted
Like weather, they sever expectations.
 
Beg me open. I will be merciful.
What bargains we have made to be here.

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Julie Triganne is from Tiohtià:ke/Montréal. She is currently completing a master’s degree in creative writing at Concordia University.

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