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.

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