The Maynard
October 2013

Jen Currin

The Future of Music

Your father is dead.

On the streets of L.A.

On a train to Texas.

Your father in Winnipeg, black flies & snow.

We buzz inside frozen banks.

After it collapses: no whimpering, just work.

Melt the money: new jewelry.

Dog walking traded for fresh mint or childcare.

Frame the house, dig a basement—

Plants pattern the walls.

Can you believe we used to fly on planes?

(Shaking head): I once crossed the sea this way.

Walking through overgrown neighbourhoods with a friend,

we see the first monarch, perched on lilac.

We go on arguing, to see what it reveals.

It's disrespectful to expect too little of us.

To shield us from new experiences.

Someone had to smash the glass & pick the ripe apples.

We see a couch with a "free"—not a "broken"—sign, & sit down.

A music is beginning, just under my ribs.

My friend thinks she can face the sound.

With the blackberries before us.