04-11-2019, 06:28 PM
I dreamed last night I flew to Canada
to the mouth of a cave where Kate Beaton went,
walking me along the asphalt stream
and buying her husband or baby or dead sister
dried fruit or grilled pickings from the tentpole stalls
everyone else was too busy to comb,
"I used to work here, you know. Listen to the ducks
quack all around, their voices louder
than how they ought to be, than how my as yet unwritten book
about that pond turned black and those workers turned cancer
will make them sound,
since you live an ocean away."
My head's bowed low, minding the spill
the day's fresh rains had stained to nacre.
"Hey, don't worry, your soles are rubber---
Only the cooks are allowed to spark."
to the mouth of a cave where Kate Beaton went,
walking me along the asphalt stream
and buying her husband or baby or dead sister
dried fruit or grilled pickings from the tentpole stalls
everyone else was too busy to comb,
"I used to work here, you know. Listen to the ducks
quack all around, their voices louder
than how they ought to be, than how my as yet unwritten book
about that pond turned black and those workers turned cancer
will make them sound,
since you live an ocean away."
My head's bowed low, minding the spill
the day's fresh rains had stained to nacre.
"Hey, don't worry, your soles are rubber---
Only the cooks are allowed to spark."