Poetry
Gabriel Bridge South Saskatchewan River
Wait for it, leave it, keep your eye on it, slap it, drink it, wait for it, get it, get it, take it taste it, make it, naked, call it, write it, remember it. We’ll have to talk about it. Let’s wait and see it out. It’ll wait. It’ll have to. We’ll get there, we’ll talk, just wait it out. Emily Carr stands beside the train feeling the swell of words drain away. Her fingers trace the curve of obtrusions on the horizon, each tree, hill, house a blurred gesture carved through diesel odour, smouldered iron. This is that what this get there did that that makes me fuck off you can’t he should evening for shoes things haven’t changed much going to Toronto. Pemmican is a dream of brown like a cope worn clergy, a strong dose of hell and damnation, a rose that entangles pilsner gold drinks, the dancing gold around prohibition, inhibition, the gambling gold, the gambol. There is a spiral working its way through the train, like cosmic ants outside of gravity, consuming metal. She can feel everything from fur trimmed gauntlets to the cold hands of the unemployed on the cool night roof to Ottawa. Her mother gave black beads to new mothers in place of lace. Dark stars that shine of home on train swept rivers.
