Читать книгу Night Became Years - Jason Stefanik - Страница 6

Strowlers, c. Vagabonds, Itinerates, Men of no settled abode, of a precarious life. Wanders of Fortune, such as Gypsies, Beggars, Peddlers, Hawkers, Mountebanks, Fidlers, Country-Players, Rope dancers, Juglers, Tumblers, showers of Tricks, and Raree-show-men.

Sleepwalking

Never are your nights this long, body entombed

with exhaustion, mind ensnared in a mesh

of pixels and elusive pinwheels of REM.

In the pleasant ether of neither-nor, with sleeplessness

past your book’s yellowing font, your dust

and rancour of lust and conflict,

and the nauseous popple of sleeping pills, to a space

where darks are deeply black, lights deeply bright,

and you’re ardent in the gills of your distant past.

A madrigal hummed by a mummer choir

mimics the lapping of waves on sunken

blocks of limestone. With an acorn under your tongue,

you watch backyards careen across the rungs

of oily current. You’re holding on, encouraging

an unstudied, somatic dull, for you feel

the night is special, feel the compulsion

to prolong your dream the duration

a daemon can possess a candle flame.

Travel Advisory

Don’t come. The pictures are fake,

Photoshopped stock foliage. This is the land

of the ruthless usurper. It’s hard to crowbar away

the hooded upstart jimmying the bathroom window.

I live here, don’t come. I’ve murderous nieces

I’ve not yet met. A whole birth family, social workers say,

who’re bikers, boozers, free-basers, bums. Even Mom,

I’m told, drinks away our taxes in a lakeside teepee.

If you come, someone will smash a window of your camper van.

If you stay too long, your nights will lengthen with pain

like a housecoated family watching their home burn.

You may feel the touch of love, yes, temporarily,

but by dawn you’re found hog-tied in a garage.

Neighbours suspect it’s drug related. When news breaks

you’re also in a cult of FAS, the cops

downgrade the case. How tauntingly severe is this place

when you come – we’re hand in hand down the lane,

wind taking us toward the searing white sun.

Unfortunate Traveller

Unfortunate Traveller, where have you been?

I’ve known a chunky kid with humped back,

laggard and ah-shucks shy, shuffling

amid a gang zone while intoning a psalm.

Unfortunate Traveller, what have you heard?

I’ve heard the whispers of children in the aisles

while they discuss the crowded plight of the crabs

bound by rubber bands in the tank at Superstore.

Unfortunate Traveller, how does it feel?

It feels like booths of widows and widowers

swallowing their life’s pain with red velvet cake

in the stale light of a late-night dinette.

Unfortunate Traveller, were your senses keen?

They divined the old cat who doesn’t want

to see you cry, who won’t meet your eye

before you take her to the vet to get put down.

Unfortunate Traveller, how deep the seeing?

I saw the love as a girlfriend recalled James, dead

this year of AIDS, and who, though a bullied gay boy,

asked her as his date to their high school grad.

Unfortunate Traveller, did you find the way?

I came to starlings in a thorn bush, asleep

by an airport fence, watched sun-vaulting silverfish

blazing atop the wave tips at Winnipeg Beach.

Unfortunate Traveller, what did the signs say?

They showed a small girl still pure enough to ride tall

on the back of her mom’s wheelchair through the mall,

their faces twinned with love as they dodge and palter.

Unfortunate Traveller, where did you stay?

In an ice-fishing shack with some rough farm kids – glad

they traded in their shit-kicking boots for a pack

of Zig-Zags – using Red River jigs to fiddle and fish.

You turn off at an unfamiliar bend of road.

Silence is not forgiveness but stupefaction,

like an essay dug out of a messy desk

before a snide teacher and unfriendly class.

Grief Like the Night

I know, another poem about rape

in our small town, but in school they’re talking

about a rape at a bush party this past Friday

where the accused are cousins of the reeve.

No poem captures grief like the night

we heard about a sister’s stiffened corpse.

She had tried crossing, without shoes or clothing,

frozen fields to the offices of Public Works.

About her, in shop class, we said it wasn’t

quite rape, per se, but more a property crime.

A pimp-drug-dealer had traded her in

for a wide-tank hog in need of new paint.

Every girl knows about the warming shack

beside the hockey rink, the hunting camp

with tourist dollars – where no sex offence

ends in charges. This latest rape, forget it.

No level of policing will care one bit.

Our teacher said the girl blacked out by the pond,

when two bros she’d hung with since she was a kid

told her, ‘Lift your shirt, let us feel those tits.’