The Record
By Kiyoko Reidy
Eyes 5 by Alexey Deyneko
Lately I’ve been obsessed with making
lists, as though lining things up
one by one might finally provide
meaning. I made a list of what I planned
to pack for a trip home, then, after the fact,
a list of what I actually packed. By recording
these things they become more real. This
Happened. Once at the bakery I forgot salt
in a huge batch of pastry dough–such dull
butter. Here is the record. All the old people
I know are obsessed with the news–perhaps
because they are desperate still to be a part
of this world or because they have finally learned
to care for people they do not know. I throw salt
over my shoulder, but the devil has a thousand
eyes. I don’t want to be so tight-hearted,
but cannot watch closely a paper fortune teller
with every square reading disaster. I hardly use
salt in my cooking these days. In a way it is lucky
if your vices kill you–that you earn your end. Randomness
is neither fair nor unfair. I have moved past the age
at which if my parents died people would say
so tragic. That such a horrible thing
is no longer considered unfair is so terribly
unfair. Bits of rice in the salt shaker like strange
larva. Bits of rice in the salt shaker that remind
me, like all rice, of my Obaasan. She calls my brother
her number one grandson, my mother her number
one daughter. She remembers our roles but not
our names, except, sometimes, she remembers
mine, because it is also hers. At least in her forgetfulness
we have all become number one, first in class,
the best versions of ourselves. Worth my weight
in salt. In kimchi brine. I misunderstood the weather,
wore the wrong shoes. The snow soaked mercilessly
into my socks. My Obaasan leaves on the gas
with no flame but knows every anchor, the rhythm
of every talking head. As a child I once ripped open
a small white packet at a restaurant, thrilled
to be doing something just the right amount
of wrong, then poured the fine grain onto my tongue,
expecting sugar.
Alexey Deyneko is a pacifist who lives and contemplates the interconnections between different art forms in Sydney, the city that inspires him in a variety of delightful ways. He holds a media degree from the University of New South Wales. His micro-chapbook, Non-Fungible Token, is published by the Origami Poems Project. His work has appeared in The Raven Review, Jersey Devil Press, New Note Poetry, dadakuku and Quibble.
Kiyoko Reidy is a writer from East Tennessee. Their writing can be found in Palette Poetry, Four Way Review, Creative Nonfiction, and elsewhere. Their first book, Black Holes and Their Feeding Habits, is forthcoming with Terrapin Books in 2025. You can find more of their work at kiyokoreidy.com.