Blair Trewartha


Beaches Park (Victoria Day, 2015)

In crumpled leaves, gnats gnaw the backs of burnt necks
waiting for fireworks. We don’t worry about an eclipse
yet ‘career’ is a hurtling rock we never counted on.
Fear of overcast, constant tease of rain.
Everything sealed above will always hold,
but it won’t let us stray far from store fronts and awnings.

You worry about burn out and the intangible,
that we’ll never have a normal night again.
But that’s what saves me from my imagination,
that circus where it locks, where we ride cabs like battering rams
to hospitals, long swords singing the wood-splinter of our entrance.

Soon in this park, they’ll begin to blow things up.
Families will keep their kids up too late to watch that first crack
and flare—waves flopping onto shore, dark blue long gone
from the water. I think of that beach in Newfoundland that’s losing
all its sand. Shadows we can’t angle without the sun.

On those darkest nights to come, meet me outside the NICU.
Or let me hold you in front of our hatchback when you lose the keys.
How many nights will you open someone up, pull fresh hands and feet
into the room with you? How often, when everything goes blue,
will you return something no one even had yet?

The first one is lit. Spiral of yellow buckshot—confetti fire
snuffing out across the lake. I read somewhere that Orcas are learning
to beach themselves for a kill. Two weeks each year, their bulging bodies
breach a mere sand-dune away from suicide, wiggle back to blue-depth
before they’re trapped. I’ll bet that’s a trick we could learn
if it comes to that.

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