Thieves

Chris Johnson

 

 

When small fluffy flakes white out my window I find myself watching a reflection. Wisely, my eyes automatically close to the exposure of bright light: high-beams appearing around a corner, or the setting sun jumping out from behind a tree. It’s simple biology, tho our bodies are failing us from the indoors as simple days are filled with more wars of words. Don’t let me get off book with these vague complaints, this almost scripted call-to-arms. I started with a glance outside in the off-chance I’d be surprised with some other eyes looking in. They’re not the thieves’, however we’ve placed human traits on raccoons’ masked faces. We’re stealing the earth from them, under their noses, as they prepare for a meal, as we all wash our hands.

a park garbage can
cold in two feet of fresh snow
tomorrow’s dinner

 

 

 

 

 

Chris Johnson (he/they) was born and raised in Scarborough, and they currently live in Ottawa, the unceded territory of the Algonquin Anishinabeg Nation. He is the Managing Editor for Arc Poetry Magazine, and his previous chapbooks include Listen, Partisan! (Frog Hollow Press, 2016) and Gravenhurst (above/ground press, 2019). @ceeeejohnson