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Keymart. Apocalypse
Keymart. Apocalypse
I shove my way behind them through a labyrinth
of shelves. When they stop by the baked
goods I
stop too. She takes
a loaf of whole wheat,
he buys a couple of rolls. I take nothing.
An old pair passes us, a woman with
two kids, some teenagers
on skates. Those two wait
a bit and then move on; I go too.
By the liquor counter he meets
some people from the office. They laugh,
slap backs. That was a great party,
really great. Jane’s not bad at all.
Well, so long, see you at the office.
I listen in, and study
their reflections in the glass.
And if I suddenly struck the lights,
ignited the horizon? If I nailed
the glow to the sky and filled the air
with frenzied waling, plumes of smoke?
Who’d be trampled, who’d be crushed,
suffocated, thrown downstairs?
Whose blood would splash the floor,
the rugs, the mirrors? How much love and friendship
would end in a rush through the shelves
to the doors, to the parking lot and the highway?
But I don’t do anything for now.
I follow them to the check-out. The pistol
scanning barcodes twinkles gaily.
Thank you for shopping with us, come back
soon. Five percent off on the pork loin with your coupon.
I help them get the cart onto the sidewalk
out in front. Careful, your bread’s
about to fall, I say, a cut-rate
horseman of the apocalypse.
Translated by Claire Cavanagh