Shelf-Life Books is a hodgepodge of spectators. I’m here to listen to Sheri-D Wilson, the “Mama of Dada,” read from her newest book, Open Letter: Woman Against Violence Against Women. This is by far the most people I’ve ever seen at a poetry reading and it is a testament to how many lives Sheri-D has affected. But I’m not here for Sheri-D. I’m wearing jeans and a hoodie, and this is about as incognito as I could possibly dress for this event. No one recognizes me, and I’m happy for this. Tonight I’m too tired to talk about my magazine, I’m too tired to P.R., and I’m too tired to offer any meaningful commentary on the performance. I’m here to look for “her.” Our relationship is neither sexual nor sensual and we have never shared anything more physical than a hug. Scanning the crowd I see a slew of familiar Calgary poets, many would-be poets, and some young wide-eyed students of poetry, but not “her.”
I remember the last time we were here together: we were listening politely to some fiction writers. We clapped at the end, and she whispered in my ear, “that one was three sentences too long” or, “he’s come a long way” or, “way too much repetition” and, “shame about the melodrama in that piece.” She is the kind of person I always like talking about the process of writing with. She is humble, and we never get into long-winded discussions about the ineffable in writing—a rarity in my world.
Outside, across the street, three homeless women are smoking a joint. Sheri-D says something like, if we treat the earth well, we treat women well. If we treat women well, we treat the earth well. Maybe it’s the other way around, but I’m only half-listening. I have a strange reaction to her words: I know they’re true but I can’t help but think her gravitas makes the emphasis too dramatic. Sadly, I think she might need the emphasis because the words are probably too often ignored, which makes me feel guilty. I want to listen to the rest, but I can’t stay any longer.
Sneaking out the front door, I walk across the street. The homeless women wave at me. I want to feel empathy for them but I can’t. I only feel the guilt because I can’t fix “her.” I can’t fix “her.”
In the background I can still hear Sheri-D talking about how her poetry, like life, is a mix of the light and the heavy.
How right she is.