Anthony Henday Comes Home
Between the alwaysgreens and South Common
the highschoolers speak in lumbered tones.
Female football on Tuesdays taught me girls.
On the west end of Millwoods a Tim Hortons
seats: a diabetic, four neo-ethnics, the chevilled—
all redundant. This is where time lays down
its duster, sips through the tuft of a chesterfield.
In the mild of July we are Strathcona deep,
the fraying end of fire on its last bit of oilslick rope.
Come August, the fields of Devon host the mating
conglomerate of displaced gulls, beaks fat
with kebaps and Fillet O’ Fish, heads dirt-deep
as a rig. We are what stretches beyond the last
swell and curl of Saskatchewan wet. Look back,
the banks of us like hands for what won’t stay.
What, of us, turns to ice—the blackslip dread
and a house’s stalactic grin. Let us believe
in too much snow. In the blinding flash of December
fury we are all shut in. And why not.
This is morning. An idle breakfast
of poached eggs and sweetened yogourt.
No you, but a listless I. The constants in my life
dance with the vagueness of something Greek.
Life leaves equation for a clumsily torn page.
The skin on my hands snaps back in molluscan fashion.
There is no point to the news anymore. Only variables.
Streams of casualties shiver past the dam of fundamentalism.
We are all at the end of it, fundamentalist. Our Book chosen,
inked, splayed out. Letters and lyric—tools
to the fundamentalist, as much to the nebulous. This is mourning.
The traffic of words spills into the ventricles of thought.
We are all at the end of it, casualties. Living
on the in-sweep of each breath between speech.
The channels on the television flip themselves.
Astonished how in the thick of it, it’s no one that cares.