between the fingers.
Acknowledged or ignored,
another day is crossed off
the stack of finite calendars
piled by the bedside at the end
of our life. The taste of chapstick
suddenly sends me to a summer: age twelve.
I am walking in the rain at Waskesiu, a postcard
of Grey Owl clutched under red plastic poncho. Raindrops
taste of sunscreen and mosquito repellant as they run down
my face. Waft of damp pinepitch, and potatoes roasted on a portable
trailer barbeque. Distant car doors slam. A raven slaps the air above,
crying "Fraud, fraud," and the postcard of Archie Bellamy falls face down
in the mud. We never make the trip to see his cabin, the portage too far for
someone with this many younger brothers. His hidden English heritage was like
the trapdoor he cut in his cabin floor for the Beaver People. One day he just fell
through.
2 comments:
I like this so much. I like the building form. the content. may I be so bold as to suggest that rather than a prayer bead you use 'trade bead' in keeping with the Grey Owl theme?
I think I'd love to hear you come back to this with more pieces, from different angles.
love it.
I like all the sensory details in this: the tastes and smells, the sounds of car doors and ravens, Grey Owl beside the red poncho. Also the abrupt short line at the end.
I found the lines about days and calendars a bit distracting. I felt like the scene at Waskesiu is the centre of the poem, and if so, lines 4-6 are a bit of a side-path.
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