A fire next door—
neighbourhood panicking,
intersections barricaded by cruisers,
fire trucks like frantic elephants
charging down the street. I remember
baseball games and snowmobiles,
our coach dying inside a bulldozer,
caught on a bridge down a side-road
in an ice storm—transport swerving,
a spark at impact, cab in flames.
Rain pelted the windshield, steaming—
his son forever terrified
of storms. Two years later,
Angie was struck by a car,
flung from her snowmobile
at a stop sign—a pylon plucked
by tire—a weight that changed form,
instantly. We visited her, drunk at 2am,
smoked a joint, stared at plastic
flowers, the sketch of birds
and meadows burned into black
stone. When I propose to my wife
in an abandoned farmhouse,
a fallow field—we announce
ourselves to the dead:
stand above our grandparents’
and uncles’ graves, flash
the ring, whisper our spouse’s
name, words forever
buried by stones.
Liminal
January 29, 2015
This poem “Liminal” originally appeared in Spectres of Modernism. Spec. issue of Canadian Literature 209 (Summer 2011): 89-89.
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