Here, and Then Not
English470
Winter 2020
copyright © the authors 2020 Rebecca Clark-Gray Maddy Dunkley Jessie Holland Tyra Machan Jon McAfee Siobhan, Millar Martina Mears Kevin Peterson Becca Saunderson Hannah Trombley printed in Cambria 11 pt Published by wink books. Printed and bound in Canada at the UNBC Copy Centre. wink books
1728 6th Avenue Lheidli T’enneh/Prince George BC V2L 3N6 rbudde@unbc.ca This copy is # _______ of 12
Here, and Then Not
mountain top breathes out the salmon have finished running— running from the bears
the yellowhead winds through the April breeze around a red cross and sea of tall red grass
the dead deer lies still trees shiver condolences snow swallows her up
problem solving: deep snow, heavy feet, contemplative tracks to what follows
her footprints formed in midday mud are now frozen in this evening frost
and I do too, melting, falling for months and falling still buried and/or forgotten
that boot print in fresh snow seeming a permanent crater but gone with the spring
the blue sky sings of sun; blinded by the ice sheen
that ice patch there—slick talker catching me at a weak moment—done deal!
the frost on my back window branches like tiny veins that pump
today I missed you; tomorrow a different story— when do you miss me?
lift your eyes to face the sky; last fall it all seemed so empty
morning sun neon orange cloud banks merge with hills beautiful in differing hues of blue
golden sunrise on concrete blue ice sky and black ice earth
naked trees in snow— I am also bare and sleeping and will blossom soon
dreadful dark detriment; lie down, dwell, dump destiny
lymph nodes red, swollen so I hide my face in my scarf— hand sanitizer season
a sprig of last summer’s oregano pokes from a grey clump of ice—fragrant!
tantamount to joy— the sun crests higher even and we can breathe again
curbing all desire to be independent; the city bus hunkers broken and sullen
‘jeez that’s a spiffy hat’ the child calls from a minivan, waving
the December sun rise meets the night fall. Grit, snow reveals the dead calf
the spruce boughs hum loud weighed under deep snow— my veins are fizzing
anyways, don’t say anything since there’s nothing to be said
foot after footstep walking slowly down the lane— if only I’d leave
black and white mountains rocks darkening pristine snow left there by the plows
cars hate winter—refuse to get out of bed
twin black wings open voices crack and shudder past sun glaring on ice
such is the path’s gravel convoy; grit between teeth as the day shifts
February day brings congestion and tired fury but also cupid
winter is dying suffocated by the sun
snowy cloud bank drifts toward a horizon—this path a crease between worlds
small northern Prince George where mills buzz and I wish for clean air— the homeless do too
a black house spider traverses a snowbank to explore the impossible
palms pressed into earth dirt beneath each nail, gripping just to feel your pulse
oceans around us frequent ripples cut the air— children in your mind
sparrows stop chirping when the car pulls beside— so much is unsaid
sun on the snowbank too bright to look at directly all gold and silver
glistening sheen of frozen ground; a wealth of diamonds without a store
lost in translation lost in eyes like a blizzard but I’ve found my way
the gleam of black ice studded with black gravel— parking lot at dawn
the wind that consumes and rips us apart and blankets us together
the moose lifts its head; the kettle finishes boiling
that last gust of breeze had seaweed in its teeth
trespassing at home tippy toes don’t make a sound— the day sees me the flow of water abruptly stops mid-thought
I freeze—the sky stops— there is no record of what actually happens
"Winter is a season of recovery and preparation." Paul Theroux