TWO THINGS by PENNY SARMADA
Woodcutter
Woodcutter returns, smelling of pine sap and salt while
the pong of rotting animal wafts in behind unnoticed
clinging
like humidity in the dead of mosquito summer
Woodcutter leans his axe by the cabin door and crosses
a floor of hand-hewn planks and eats cold soup and bread
alone
at a simple table of his own manufacture
Woodcutter faces the empty chair and thinks of
how things would have been oh so very different long
ago
on that final day if only he had been there for her
Woodcutter lies in a bed narrow as a canoe and his mind
sways to the rhythm of waves licking the pebbled
lakeshore
then retreating, unsure of the taste, to the deep centre
Woodcutter awakens to the call of loons and caresses
the tender meat of his palm where the long sliver is still
buried—
afraid that if he pulls it out the pain would stop forever
Moncton
Western sun blinds us, hot sizzling tar top, road turns soft, weeds encroach gravel shoulders, wobbly line horizon emptiness, smells like hell
Even the song on the radio doesn’t like the look of this place
Here’s what I say
Let’s turn this thing around, point it back home, shitty old van sprayed amateur gray, puffy tires black sprinkle donuts, cracked leatherette seats the colour of chewed toffee
C’mon, turn it around, let the low sun push from behind, back across la frontière du Québec
Just turn it around
Tonight we’ll unfurl threadbare bags, lumpy pillows of shoes rolled in towels still damp from the river dip, shiver to sleep on the Plains of Abraham, you snoring at constellations, me dreaming aloud till morning comes, together keeping wolves away
If we’re lucky
Boil a pot of sunup coffee in dented percolator aluminum gray, pack up and split before cops come banging round, keep going going
Let’s head back east yes yes I changed my mind, one thing I can still do, don’t wait for an apology
Yes, you’ll turn the wheel and say but darlin’ the past will swallow us whole, as we slide down this long throat of highway
Cars will pass going god knows where, children waving hello goodbye from backseat windows smudged little faces pressed, I want to smile but don’t
Stop along the roadside quick, squat among flowering Solidago beside chittering insects, then tune in a station we know, hear a song never heard before
We’ll lie in wet green grass / we’ll blow the borrowed cash
We’ll live on the edge of a storm / change our shape, shift our form
Put away your gun, baby / you won’t need your gun
Maybe we’ll be invisible / I want to be invisible
To everyone but you
Sudden rain hits windshield, wet shrapnel cracks against glass, wipers flap drowning crows, won’t see a goddamn thing as we pass but the sign will say
WELCOME TO NEW BRUNSWICK
WHERE THE WEATHER IS FOREVER
We’ll get cold lobster, store-bought mayonnaise, pass it back & forth in the front seat, stick fishy fingers in deep and suck clean, share the cider we stole from the dep in Montreal, spill it in our laps and laugh and keep driving
You can’t replant, you say, those softened rotten roots from seeds unseen unsown ungrown
So you say
I say let’s get back in time to hear the tide roaring up the chocolate river, muddy floodwaters returning as shorebirds circle under clouds, waiting not leaving
I am a smudged face child on a swing trying to see over the tops of houses, I am playing hide & seek, running, trying to see around corners, I’m a child painting pictures–sun blue, sky yellow–trying to become invisible
Penny Sarmada (they/them) is from Ontario. Recent stuff in Versification, Cotton Xenomorph, Roi Fainéant, and Sledgehammer. Twitter: @PennySarmada