Francophone retail resistance
I’m a little mouse. Dead in the mouse trap. Eyes bulged open. Silver spots centered in dilated pupils.
I moved from house to house, running along the window ledges in search of fresh raspberries or crumbs.
In through this hole, out through a crack, I squeezed, never stumbled, as quick as a rat.
Today is Sunday; it’s the first of the year. There’s snow all around me and I’m still here.
From behind the curtains, I watch the commercials on the flatscreen TV’s.
I used to go inside and watch from behind. My own private TV room: warm and cozy, where the pictures lit up as high as the sky.
I’d make tea for the neighbors and serve hot carrot pie.
I’d run to the store and be a good citizen and buy none of the products the TV said to buy.
They would kick at me, shout at me. Some men and some women would scream, and I’d feel like a rhino and as big as the soda machine.
It got very confusing, which products to steal. I’d buy them if I could, but the money is too big.
Even when I tried to eat all the colorful bills, all I’d get is indigestion, and on the coins I would break my teeth.
My neighbors would come and make all kinds of suggestions. Some would say plastic and others declared that food stamps or vouchers were for all that they cared.
Then one day I started to hear voices. Although I couldn’t discern any words or any sentences, they sounded warm and sincere.
Sometimes I’d think there’d be a million at once and other times it sounded as if they were all speaking backwards.
And then, at the baker, the caterer, the cheese chop, it’d see letters, with curls and with lines, with knots and with dots.
It’s a whole new adventure for a mouse of my size. I no longer believed in all of those lies.
I didn’t know capitalist or fascist from fries. But now I saw fireworks as the metal bar crashed.
It’s the end of my story and I can’t explain. But it’s up to you now to ascertain, in a language of stars, why the dogs keep barking, and the people make wars.
