Dancing on the head of a pin

I am an Irish citizen, mulling remaining in the UK or taking myself, my husband and my dog off to Ireland. Both my husband and I worked our entire careers in the US, and so have a dog in that fight--our pensions--too. Here is one recent expression of what the global shitstorm feels like to those of us who need to be concerned with more than one skirmish in the apparent global war on peace, freedom and the prosperity everyone deserves.

 

Idealised fallout shelter, 1957, US. I expect Brexit will make most of us wish for something this good.

 

Dancing on the head of a pin

 

Laura Harrison McBride

When I was 12, we looked at new houses

with bomb shelters. My school

stored water

and crackers in its basement. And then,

Kennedy. And then

the fear of imminent death subsided

before a wall of intelligence. Or maybe

our brains

our emotions

were, so many decades short of

Bush and that grifter from Queens,

fried.

And so it had been, these 50 odd

years. Even clowns from Hollywood

deferred to those with

brains and

a modicum of common

sense. To a point.

I had hoped to get out of here alive, if

you see what I mean. Looking less

likely by the day.

Fifty years on

I know

no shelter of cement

a foot below grade will save us.

No amount of water

and crackers will

help.

Help. We need help. I never

thought

an impassioned plea

to whatever

gods there be

would leave my lips at

this age, an age when I know

I'll be reaped soon. My life is

well beyond

half over. Well beyond.

And yet, I cling

to each day. Certainly, I

don't want the bullet dodged so

long ago to find me.

I mostly don't want it to find me

now, now when there is a maniac

in the White House and a vile

hag riding the coat-tails of greedy

politics to lodge at No. 10, Downing Street,

UK.

I fear the upheaval,

the scarce food,

the minimal housing,

the marauders,

the disease,

the result

of a nuclear event.

Event, like a cotillion.

Only worse.

Dance on the head of a pin today

if you can. Today may be the last

you have. If not--

if by chance some intellect arrives

and shoves the buffoons aside--

still, it won't hurt to

practice being an angel.

Copyright 2018, Laura Harrison McBride