Someone Give Seurat a Smartphone

after The Lighthouse at Honfleur by Georges Seurat, National Gallery of Art, DC

Imagine, 
making that transition 
from Pointillism 
to point-and-click.
Now, zoom in. 
Look at all those pixels
instantaneously created 
by fingertip on glass.
What would you think?
Would you embrace 
the digital domain
retiring your brushes forever?
Or, would you cling onto the old?
The art history lover in me likes to think the latter -
that the smell of ochre mixed with linseed,
the smooth handle of a well-used wooden brush,
the squelch as horsehair enters paint
and the scratch of brush scraping on canvas
would be enough to keep you loyal,
enough for you to toss that new tech to the side.
That you would choose to stay 
seated in the sun with your easel
on that tranquil beach at Honfleur
a cool breeze tickling your skin
feeling your naked toes on the warm sand
with the sound of waves calmly lapping on the shore.
That your preference would still be
to spend whole days  
— not just seconds —
recording that lighthouse,
one tiny dot of paint at a time.

Originally published in Gargoyle Online #7

Customs Declaration

It began with a banana.
No, a wedding, I suppose.
Well, friendship, actually.

Sniffer dogs found it
at BWI late one night.
A CBP officer in blue

escorted me, somberly, 
to ‘Secondary Inspection’.
Honesty was my downfall:

Do you have any other food?
  Um, I have some Oxo cubes?
We’ll have to take those…

No mad cows allowed 
(even in cute little cubes 
of crumbly bouillon).

Thank the gourmet gods 
I thought to extract the 
recipe, lovingly printed

and packaged with Oxo
- such a fitting favour 
from a couple who cook.

I make that casserole
every year, in tribute 
of my night of crime.

Originally published in Meat For Tea, Volume 17: Casserole

Lengths

My childhood swim coach, Eric, would line us up along the 
pool wall, tiny fingers clasping smooth, wet tiles and instruct 
us to kick by yelling legs, legs, legs, legs, legs, legs, legs, legs, legs, legs, legs!
like a Speedo Sergeant Major bellowing at his troops to march 
into a watery battle. We grumbled about it at the time, but that 
training fostered stamina and attitude for lifelong perseverance.

As an adult I swim for my own kicks. For the endorphin nirvana 
that floods, post-swim, through my veins. For the feeling of cool 
water caressing my warm skin as I dive in for the first time. For 
that unique taste of chlorine and salt on my lips. For the euphoric 
feeling of weightlessness as I duck down deep into the aquamarine. 
This year I mark on a chart each mile I swim. Up and down. Up and
down. Up and down. Counting lengths systematically, religiously.

When you turn eighteen, no one explains that you will feel that age 
inside forever. No one tells you that when you have kids you will 
shove aside the kid inside you. No one prepares you for the fact that 
your time will never be quite your own time again. Today I sheepishly 
return that overdue library book, rush to the store to pick up those 
mushrooms I forgot, drive twenty miles over the speed limit to get 
my kids to their dentist appointment on time, cook dinner while 
decoding third-grade math homework and nag my daughter to practice 
her violin. My husband wants to watch Netflix so I leave those emails.

Tomorrow the alarm shrills at 5:30am. I sigh inwardly at repeating 
the day all over again. I want to burrow my head under the pillows, 
to fall back, back into the peaceful oblivion. But Eric’s militant voice 
penetrates the darkness: legs, legs, legs, legs, legs, legs, legs, legs, legs, legs, legs!

Originally published in Welter, Spring 2024

Root Canal

The x-ray flooded the screen in shades of grey. 
You, with your smiling eyes and pristine scrubs, 
explained the procedure efficaciously. 
There are reasons, I thought, 
why dentistry only admits movie stars. 
Unsettled, I imagined tiny boats 
sailing down my tooth’s root. 
Unconvinced, I took my referral and ran.

Originally published in The 50-Word Stories of 2023 by Vine Leaves Press

Conditioning

In the shower after my swim I notice 
a bottle forgotten on the wet, tiled shelf. 
It is a conditioner, one of those organic, 
vegan ones, its colour a deep relaxing green 
Overwhelming temptation! 
I’m not adventurous cosmetically, 
but I want to use it on my hair. 
I know I shouldn’t. I can hear my mother: 
leave it there, someone might come back for it,
but a disheveled devil’s advocate whispers: 
Just use a little — 
even if they do come back, 
they’ll never know…

So I squeeze out a huge, milky-white dollop. 
It is cool on my palm, and smells of mint.
Half expecting the toiletry-police to burst 
through the curtain, I quickly work the thick 
liquid into my hair. I feel the transformation, 
feel my hair thirstily absorb the luscious luxury 
of this newness, feel the adrenaline rush from 
this uncharacteristic deviation from routine.

As I exit the shower I feel a pang of jealously
— who will find it next? Will they use it too?
Driving home, I contemplate a poem 
to chronicle this toiletry transgression.
How do I feel? Guilty? 
Maybe a little. 
But mostly, 
I feel soft and silky smooth.

Violin SOS

Tears fill sparkling, livid eyes.
Cautiously, but frantically, you
attempt to turn the tuning peg, 
fully believing you have destroyed 
your precious violin. Devastated,
those blues plead an urgent SOS.

With your despair tugging on 
the entirety of my motherhood,
my heart swells like one of those
magic washcloths from Target.
I love you — I think — I would do 
anything to see you smile again.

With Oscar-winning calm, I listen 
as you explain how the strings just
won’t tighten as they should, your voice 
sharp, your soul flat, your pitch scaling 
new octaves. It’s time — I decide —
to retune a violin, and a daughter.

I call the store and they save the day
with the simplest of advice — push 
the tuning pegs while turning them.
With EAGD once more in harmony, 
my work is done, crisis forgotten.
Practice resumes, smile retuned.

Poems © Mel Edden, all rights reserved